Perserverance
by Marla Fair
Summary: A WHN for the episode 'Survival'. An Indian boy comes to Walnut Grove in search of Charles Ingalls. He claims he is the grandson of Jack Lame Horse and has come to take Charles to Mankato to speak at the trial of the Indian man who has been captured and is about to hang. But is that all there is to it?
1. Chapter 1

Perseverance

ONE

"Pa! Pa! You gotta come! You gotta come _now!"_

Charles Ingalls drove the tips of his pitchfork into the hay, passed the back of his salmon-pink sleeve over his face to wipe away the sweat, and then looked toward the door of the barn. He'd been pitching hay for the horses when Laura's voice rang out loud and clear. It sounded like the world was endin', but he knew that was just his child's way of lettin' him know that something excitin' had happened.

White must have had her kittens.

As several of White's older 'children' darted playfully in and out of the hay, nearly tripping him, Charles shook his head and grinned. The cat had another name when she came to them, but she kept on puttin' out kittens at such rate that Caroline had started callin' her 'White'. Like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.

'Course that rabbit was male and White was female, but they'd both got the joke.

Laura appeared in the doorway. Her red gingham dress was askew, her pinner apron was a mess, and her reddish-brown hair was flyin' like a flock of scattered birds. In other words, she was just about the prettiest thing he'd seen since sunrise.

"Pa," she said, breathless. "Pa..."

"Has the Reverend come to call?" he teased while lookin' at the state he was in. "I sure better change if he has..."

"It...ain't...the Reverend, Pa..." she said, breathless.

"Well, then, must be someone else _mighty_ important."

She shook her head. "Pa, no..."

"Maybe Johnny Johnson," he offered with a tight-lipped smile.

Laura blushed red as her dress.

"Charles..."

Standin' behind Laura was the reason he'd thought his daughter was 'just about' the prettiest thing he'd seen since sunrise.

Caroline had brought him a drink about a half hour before.

Crossing to his wife, Charles wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her into a kiss. Her eyes scolded him for teasing their child, but her lips didn't seem to care.

"What brings you out here again so soon, Mrs. Ingalls?" he asked, winking.

Caroline looked serious. "I think you need to look at White and her kittens."

"Oh?" he asked, sobering. "Is something wrong?" If it was, it would surprise him. That cat had kittens easier than a knife slipped through warm butter.

She inclined her head toward Laura. "It's _one_ of the kittens."

Laura nodded her agreement. "That's what I was tryin' to tell you, Pa! Peanut needs you real bad!"

Not ten minutes old, and the kittens already had names.

"He's the runt of the litter, Charles. White's refusing to feed him."

"You gotta _do_ somethin', Pa!"

His daughter's light hazel eyes were fastened on him with that look that said she _knew_ he could perform the miracle needed. Charles sighed. While that look might make a man puff his chest out like a turkey in season, it was mighty hard to live up to.

The curly-haired man went to his child. Kneeling in front of her, he took Laura's shoulder in his hand. "Now, Half-pint, we've been over this before. Nature has its own way. Sometimes it seems cruel to us, but it's right to the creatures livin' in it. White's only got so much milk in her and she needs to keep it for the kittens she _knows_ can survive. Do you understand?"

Tears streamed down Laura's face. She shook her head 'no'.

Charles rose. With a glance at his wife, he took his daughter by the hand and went over to sit on one of the unbroken bales of hay.

Caroline gave him a tight-lipped smile. "I'll go back to the girls."

He nodded. As he watched her walk away, Charles considered what he should say. The only right thing to do as a parent was to be blunt and honest. The kitten was going to die because its mother had rejected it. That was the truth and the way God had planned things. They had to accept it. No amount of belly-achin' was goin' to change it.

That's what he _should_ say.

It wasn't so easy when he was lookin' at that little tear-streaked face.

He took Laura's hand in his. "Half-pint, the Good Book says there's a season to every thing – a time to be born and a time to die, a time to get and a time to lose."

"Why would God want Peanut to die?" she wailed.

It was hard to explain the natural cycle to a child who could only see the fluffy little bundle of feistiness and fun a kitten would grow into. Hard even for _him_ to understand sometimes. If he was honest, he would admit it.

Charles pursed his lips. Guess he'd be confessin' come tomorrow morning.

"Maybe God wants Peanut up there in Heaven with him."

Laura sniffed and used her apron to wipe her nose. "You think so?" she asked, blinking back tears.

"I imagine," he said.

"But..."

Here it came like he knew it would.

"Couldn't _we_ feed Peanut? I mean, we got plenty of milk from the cow. I'd give him some of mine."

Her precious little face was so earnest.

Charles nodded. "Well, we could. And maybe we could keep him alive. But he wouldn't have a mother. What do you think he'd be like without a mother to tend and care for him?"

"Charlie Parsons don't have a mother," his logical child replied.

"That's true, but Charlie's got a mind to think things through. A kitten's all instinct. All Peanut would know was that somethin' was missin' and he'd spend his life tryin' to find it."

Laura thought hard for a minute. "What if I could get his mother to accept him? Would things be all right then?"

He knew what that meant for her – endless hours of pickin' the kitten up and puttin' it at it's mother's teat and watchin' White push it away until it died.

Still, there was a lesson there to be learned as well.

"Can I _try_ , Pa?"

Charles rose and held out his hand. "Well now, why don't you and I go look at Peanut and then we'll decide together. He might be too weak to try."

Or already dead, he thought to himself.

Laura sniffed and then rose and locked her fingers in his. As they walked toward the sod house where they'd put White until her time came, and where his other daughters were waitin', hoping for a miracle, the curly-haired man thought about the cycle of life. A man was born, he fell in love, married, and had children. They married too and had their own, and then most often he died before those children were grown. In-between was a lot of lovin' and losin'. If you had no faith in God it seemed mighty spiteful. Takin' a chance on love meant, most likely, you'd feel a lot of pain. Sufferin' was part and parcel of life. It was as predictable as the sun risin' in the east and settin' in the west. The only thing that made it bearable, was knowin' that there _was_ a hand directing it all – that there _was_ a time to rend and to sew, a time to plant and a time to pluck up what was planted; a time to love and to hate, and a time to die as well as live. And to know that it had all been written in God's book long before a man was born.

Even how long little Peanut would live.

They climbed the steps and went inside the sod house. Caroline was sitting at the back with Carrie on her lap. Mary was on the floor by White, who was layin' there lookin' contented and lazy with six kittens pressed up against her.

Six. That was _all_ of them.

"Is she lettin' Peanut drink?" Laura asked as she dropped beside her sister.

"Only after the others were done," Mary replied solemnly. "There probably ain't much left."

"' _Isn't_ ', Mary," he mother chided softly.

The blonde girl nodded as she placed a finger on White's head and petted her. "Sorry, Ma."

Laura turned to look at him.

"Does that mean Peanut's gonna live, since he's got a Ma?"

Charles crouched. He reached out a finger and placed it on the tiny body, feeling the kitten's heart beating – feeling the life in it.

"There's no way to say, Half-pint. It looks like it might be up to Peanut." His eyes flicked to his wife and then back to his second daughter. "He'll have to fight every inch of the way, Half-pint, and he'll probably need your help. Even at that, he may still not make it. He's gotta have a _will_ to survive." Charles rose to his feet. "You can't know what's inside an animal until it shows."

Or inside a man.

Her eyes were round. "Can I get him some milk from the pail and see if he'll drink that too?"

It was probably too early, but it wouldn't hurt for her to try.

Charles nodded. "Then it's time to get to your chores." His eyes took in his other daughters. " _All_ of you."

There was a chorus of 'Yes, Pa'.

As the girls left the sod house a few minutes later, Caroline came to his side. She slipped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "It's a hard lesson," she said softly.

He nodded as he watched the girls split up, Mary taking Carrie into the house to begin work on the next meal, and Laura heading to the barn. "But a necessary one."

"Sometimes I think," she paused, "in the city..."

He knew what she was thinking. In a city children didn't have to face daily the harsh realities of life. They didn't see animals being born and dyin', or know they were slaughtered for the table. They didn't live on the edge, knowing a grasshopper plague or storm could wipe them out. They could count on things happenin' day to day the same – gettin' up, goin' to work, bringin' home a paycheck; buyin' food at a store where there was always a ready supply.

In other words, learning to rely on yourself and not on God.

No, for all the hard things his daughters had to endure, he was glad they lived where they did and that they had a little less than enough. It would form their characters and make them into the women God intended; women who would help and support the man they loved like the one leanin' on him now. Charles kissed her lips. He really didn't have to say anythin'.

Caroline knew it all.

She kissed him back and smiled. "I should get in to help Mary."

He nodded. "After we eat, I've got to run into town to pick up those supplies at Hansen's." He was expanding the corral beside the barn. A few months back again, in the spring, they'd been blessed with a new calf. There'd be more to come and he wanted to give them plenty of room to grow.

"Did you fix that wheel on the wagon yet?" she asked, an edge to her voice.

"Going to today," he replied, a little sheepishly. She'd been at him for a few days to get it done. He'd put it off in favor of more important chores, but with Sunday comin'...

Caroline held his gaze for a moment and then nodded. She kissed him quick again and then went to join the girls. He'd go help Laura in the barn and then they'd all eat the noon meal together before he headed into Walnut Grove.

It was the time to build.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Harriet Oleson was cleaning the counter in the mercantile when the door opened and, along with a rush of air that stirred the pair of expensive white Battenberg curtains she'd just hung in the shop window, a young man blew in. He was lean and long and though well-dressed, had a gangrel sort of look about him like he didn't belong anywhere. She was instantly on alert.

She was sure he was going to rob them!

"Nels!" she called in her high-pitched voice. "Oh, Nels!"

Her husband was in the back room working. His long face appeared, peering around the corner.  
"What is it _now,_ Harriet?"

Well. He _sounded_ like she'd interrupted him before.

Just because she'd called him in to ask him what he was thinking when he marked in the new silk stockings in at less than fifty cents each, and why in the _world_ he had put the box on the top shelf instead of on the counter where people would see it and know they had them, and then called him back again when Charles Ingalls had come in since she just couldn't abide the man and his arrogance, Nels seemed to think she was keeping him from getting anything done. Harriet harrumphed. Her husband had actually shouted at her – _shouted_ , mind you – as if _she_ had done something wrong!

Her lips tight, Harriet nodded her head at the young man who was standing by the window looking out.

Nels' eyebrows jumped.

Her own winged toward her widow's peak in response. She nodded again. With a sigh, her husband dropped the sack he was holding to the floor and walked over to her.

"Whatever is the matter with – ouch!"

She'd stomped on his toe. "I'd like you," she said, her voice quiet and insistent, "to go and ask that 'customer' just what it is he wants."

Nels looked. "You mean that young man?"

"Well now, I don't see anyone _else_ in the store at the moment, do you?"

Her husband sighed again as he turned back to the storeroom. " _You_ ask him – "

She grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

"What?" he growled.

"Can't you see?" She kept her voice low as she nodded in the young man's direction.

"See what?"

"There's something... _wrong_ with him."

Nels looked. He frowned and then the light seemed to dawn. "I'll say there is."

"Yes. Yes!" she said, triumphant. "What do you think it is?"

The tall thin man pinned her with exasperation. "He must not have a brain. After all, he was stupid enough to come in here."

"Oh!" she huffed as her husband headed across the store to talk to the young man who had remained where he was, by the window, looking out on the street.

Harriet watched the two of them. The stranger started and turned toward the counter as Nels asked if he could help him. Now that she looked at him more closely, he was really rather handsome in a dark sort of way – like maybe he had Spanish blood. His hair was that black that looked blue at certain angles and his skin, well, she thought it might be naturally tanned. And though he did look like a wanderer, the tatty clothes he was wearing were of a good make and cut from decent cloth. A smile tickled Harriet's lips as she continued to size him up. Perhaps he had been born to one of those manors that had lots of fine things in them, but little or no money to keep them up. Or maybe he was the secret love child of one of their lords. Something like Heathcliff in that Bronte girl's novel.

Harriet giggled. No, she was letting her imagination run away with her. She'd read one too many of those books that she kept under the counter and only brought out when other women asked.

She hadn't even admitted to Reverend Alden that they carried them!

Nels spent another minute talking to the young man and then started back her way. The stranger watched him go – revealing his long, lean face split by a pair of dark intense eyes. Then he opened the door and stepped out .

"Well?" she asked. "Who is he?"

Her husband sighed. "I didn't ask him his life story, Harriet, only if he needed help."

She scowled. Men! They just had no sense at all! "And?"

"Curiously enough, he was looking for Charles. I told him he'd find him at Hansen's if he hurried."

The young man looked to be about sixteen. "What would he want with Charles Ingalls?"

It was Nels' turn to scowl. "That's none of our business either, Harriet, and you know it!"

"It most certainly is!" She straightened her back and skirts. "Who is going to look out for this town if not fine, upstanding citizens like ourselves? Why, that boy could be a highway robber, or a con man, or maybe a ..."

"...young man looking for a friend of his father or mother, or maybe for work?" Nels sighed. "Honestly, Harriet, if you keep this up I'm going to burn those books you have hidden under the counter. They just add fuel to the fire of that overactive imagination of yours."

Harriet paled.

Nels... _knew?_

"Well...eh... _really_ ," she stuttered and then added, refusing to admit defeat, "you mark me, no good will come of it. Why, Charles is probably..."

"What? Plotting to rob the bank? Hiring a known assassin?" Nels cocked one eyebrow. "If that's the case, then _you'd_ better watch out!"

Harriet fanned herself with her hand . "Well, I never..."

Nels sighed more than any man she knew. Sometimes she wondered if there was something medically wrong with him.

"Don't I wish?" he muttered at the end of it. "Now, is it all right if I go back to work?"

She dismissed him with a wave of the same hand. "Oh, go away."

"Gladly."

Once her husband had disappeared into the storeroom, Harriet crossed quickly to the door. Opening it, she stepped onto the porch and looked south toward Hansen's Mill. Charles Ingalls was just pulling out in that dilapidated old wagon of his.

He was alone.

With a frown, Harriet scoured the street looking for the stranger. She finally found the young man standing underneath a tree, masked by shadows. He was staring after Charles and as she watched, stepped into the sunlight and looked back her way.

The look on his young face surprised her. It was determined and, dare she say it, angry? The dark-haired woman pursed her lips and popped her black eyebrows. Well! Maybe Charles Ingalls was about to get his comeuppance at last. From the look of it that young man was far from being the farmer's friend.

In fact, he looked like he just might be an enemy.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Charles was on his way back to town. He'd gotten about a mile along the road to home when he'd realized he had forgotten to go to the Blacksmith's to pick up some iron rivets he needed. The sun was almost down and it meant he was going to be traveling home in the dark, but there was nothing for it but to do it. Before heading into town for church tomorrow he needed to fix the wagon wheel. He could feel it wobbling' now as he rode along at a controlled pace. It was one thing riskin' his own safety, but it was another thing entirely to risk his family's.

He just hoped the blacksmith was workin' late. If they missed church, Caroline would kill him.

With Divine permission, of course.

As he jogged along, laughin', the curly-haired man thought about Laura and her kitten. Both seemed determined that it would live. The little thing was a scrapper. He'd chuckled today when Peanut had fought and spit and shoved a larger kitten named Samson out of its way to get to its mother's milk. White seemed to take it all in stride as if that scrawny little kitten fightin' for its survival was what she'd intended all along. She didn't go out of her way to feed him, but she didn't stop him suckin' at her teat either if he earned his way.

Seemed there were still lessons for _him_ to learn too.

He knew he tended to be a pessimist at times. The crop wasn't gonna make it. The rain wasn't gonna fall when it should. They wouldn't have enough money to make it through the winter. He snorted. Danged, if he didn't sound like some kind of sore, poutin' little kid at times! If one of his children had acted like that, they'd have gotten a kind word, then a stern one, and then had their backsides tanned for bein' such a pain! It was just hard sometimes to look at the bright side of a thing when everything looked so dark and so much was sittin' on a man's shoulders – feedin' his family, keepin' them safe, makin' sure they had clothes and more. Charles sighed as he slapped the reins against the horses' rumps and urged a little more speed out of them. He was always tellin' others they had to surrender their pride to God.

Looked like he was talkin' to the choir.

As they neared the bend that would take them north into Walnut Grove one of the horses shied and snorted. The other caught its fear and halted abruptly, rearing back and jarring the wagon. It was then he heard it. The sound he had been prayin' _not_ to hear.

One of the hub rivets had let go and the top of the hub flange was dangling loose.

"Whoa, boys!" he coaxed. "Easy now. There's nothin' to be scared of."

Both horses were shifting back and forth. The one that had panicked first was kicking at the dirt.

"Whoa, boys! Whoa – "

Too late. With a snort and a scream, both animals bolted forward.

Charles eyes went to the wheel. The fixin's were holding, but it was only a matter of time before they let loose entirely – a _short_ amount of time.

He kept talkin' to them, using a soothing tone, coaxing the pair to settle down, but he knew it was pointless. Panicked horses rarely listened to reason. If he didn't jump, he was gonna be thrown. He was near the edge of town now. If somethin' happened – if he hit wrong – when the wagon rolled in without him, at least someone would come looking.

Charles tried one last time, hauling back on the reins and calling out, "Whoa! Come on now, whoa!"

He heard a snap. The wagon dipped.

Before he could be thrown, Charles jumped off and rolled into the trees.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

Charles didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. By the light remaining, he thought it might have been ten minutes or so. As he gingerly climbed to his feet, the curly-haired man took a toll of his injuries. They included a bruised calf, a jammed elbow, and sore shoulder – all on the right side – and a head that felt like Isaiah's must have after he'd had one too many. Once he was upright, Charles remained where he was and listened. No one was callin' his name so he couldn't have been unconscious _too_ long. If the wagon had rolled into town empty, surely someone would have seen it and come looking for him. He shook leaves and bracken out of his hair as he began to search for his hat. 'Course that was supposin' that the wagon and team had _reached_ town. As he turned his head to look in that direction, pain stabbed him like a knife. Reaching up, he put a hand to the back of his head and felt the knot forming there.

That'd teach him to chance drivin' to town with a busted bearing!

One thing was for sure, Caroline was gonna skin him when she found out. She'd been tellin' him to get the wheel fixed for at least a week, but since no one had been in danger but him, he'd put it off in order to attend to more important chores. There was no two ways about it, he'd let his wife down. Not only was the wagon busted so they wouldn't be able to get to church in the morning, but he was on foot and would be late gettin' home, causin' her to worry. A slight smile curled his lips. Even so – even though Caroline would be madder than a wet hen – when she found out what had happened she'd fuss over him and scold him for not takin' time to stop by Doc Baker's to have his head checked. He'd considered it, but decided not too since that would make him even later.

Charles shook his head. What was it he'd been tellin' Laura just that morning about life bein' hard?

With a sigh, the curly-haired man caught his hat up from the ground and headed for the road. He was about half-way up the rise when he stopped. There were voices directly above him – _raised_ voices. Men were shoutin', and from the sound of it fists were flyin' too. Careful to remain concealed, he worked his way to the top and peered out from behind a clump of thick bushes. He'd been right. There were four men standin' in the middle of the road. From what he could tell, it was three against one – and the _one_ was a scrawny kid. He was a scrapper though and was holdin' his own. Charles held back. It wasn't his fight and as long as the boy was managing on his own, he would just stay out –

One of the men reached toward his belt and then there was a flash. Charles shook his head. So much for stayin' out of it.

The man had a knife.

Shifting forward, he continued to observe the men. It was hard to see their faces in the twilight, but he thought he recognized at least one of them. He didn't know the man well, but they'd had doings at Hansen's mill.

He could only hope that fact would shame the man some when he was forced to call him out.

Charles sucked in a steadying breath as he parted the branches in front of him and stepped out into the moonlight.

"Jim Rhodes, what do you think you're doin'?" he called out, using the tone he usually reserved for ten year old boys caught lighting firecrackers in the privy.

James Rhodes, a giant of a man who had at least five inches on him and out-weighed him by around twenty pounds, stared him down.

"You keep out of this, Ingalls," he growled.

Charles was a little surprised the man knew him so quickly. Then he saw his team and wagon parked not a quarter mile down the road.

"Keep out of what?" he asked as he moved closer. "You poundin' the life out of this youngster here?"

The three men were _all_ of a good size. He knew Jim. One of the others he recognized from the town. His name was Luke Owens and he wasn't much older than the young man they were threatenin'. The other was a stranger to him.

"We're gonna take this _Injun_ here to Sleepy Eye and turn him in. He ain't got no papers showin' he's got permission to be off the reservation."

"I do not live on the reservation!" the boy snarled, even as he wiped blood from his lower lip and spat out more. "I have _never_ lived on the reservation!"

"Well, that's where a _savage_ like you belongs, _boy_ ," the teenager with Rhodes declared. "You better come with us right nice and friendly or somethin' might just happen to you along the way to the jail."

Charles looked at the young man in question. 'Injun', Rhodes had said. It was possible, he supposed. Still, even though he could see the markers of someone with native blood – the strong-boned face, the curly blue-black hair and eyes, darker skin – there was nothing to prove or disprove the teenager's claims.

The boy could have been Cajun or had a Spanish-born parent.

"How do you know he's native?" Charles asked, keeping his tone even.

" _Native_ , huh? Now, ain't _we_ high and mighty?" Jim Rhodes spit. "I heard you were an Injun lover, Ingalls. I guess them that said it were right!"

Word had gotten around that spring, after they'd weathered a sudden late blizzard on their way back from Mankato, about how he had challenged a U.S. marshal's right to arrest and detain one of the Sioux chiefs who'd been pardoned by Abraham Lincoln for his part in the Dakota War of 1862. His name was Jack Lame Horse and, as far as he was concerned, he was one of the most honorable men he had ever met.

He and Jim had exchanged words once or twice regarding Indians.

"We've been over this before, Jim. They're men just like us," he countered. "God's creations."

"Satan's, you mean!" Jim snarled.

Charles was standing between them now – the boy who was a stranger and the men from his town.

"I won't let you hurt him," he said as he squared off and faced them.

A hand on his shoulder roughly thrust him aside.

"I do not need you, _white_ man, to fight my battles!" the boy growled as he moved past him and went toe to toe with Rhodes. "These men will get out of _my_ way or I will kill them!"

All right, then.

Charles moved between them again. This time he faced the young man and locked eyes with _him_. "Then I'm gonna have to take _you_ out. You understand? There will be no killin' here." He looked over his shoulder at Jim Rhodes. "On either side!"

Rhodes snorted. "Who said anything about killin'? We're just gonna teach this here uppity Injun pup a lesson."

Charles turned to face him. "No," he said and meant it.

The giant that was Jim Rhodes rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles. His lips curled back in a sneer.

"Guess I made a mistake. Looks like we're gonna have to teach it to _both_ of you."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline Ingalls was dreaming.

She was back in that cabin, the one where they outlasted the unexpected spring blizzard, pacing in front of the fire Mary had kindled and waiting for Charles to return. They'd run out of food and he'd gone hunting. He'd intended to be back before nightfall.

It was nearly noon the next day.

The girls, thank goodness, were still sleeping. Near the fire the U.S. marshal, Jim Anders, slept too. The man had been practically frozen through when he'd knocked on the door the night before and she'd let him in. His ominous words regarding Charles haunted her still.

'He's out there in this? God help him.'

Caroline crossed to the window and looked out on the raging snowstorm. Her lips parted in a similar prayer.

"God keep him safe," she whispered. "Bring Charles back to me."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. She raced to it and threw it open knowing – just knowing it _had_ to be Charles. As the wind and snow blew in, blasting her blonde hair back from her face, so did a tall silent Indian dressed in skins. He was an older man, maybe fifty. His long hair was steel gray. It was braided with thongs and framed a face graven with decades of care. The Indian looked at her and his lips parted.

'I was too late,' he mouthed.

Caroline gasped. She pushed past him and stepped onto the narrow stoop of the cabin. Outside there was a horse and there was something tied to it. Something...

 _Someone_...

"Charles!"

Caroline awoke with a start, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Her hand flew to her throat as she realized the door to the house really _was_ opening. There was no snow, of course – after all, it was late spring – just a gentle warm breeze and a few green leaves. Anticipating Charles, she took a step toward it.

She stopped as Doctor Baker appeared.

Noting her reaction, Hiram immediately raised a hand. He offered her a reassuring smile. "There's nothing too bad, Caroline, but I've got a couple of men here in need of your services."

Directly behind him stood Charles. When she caught her husband's eye, he favored her with a sheepish grin. It took a second, but then she saw why. He had a black eye...and a cut lip...as well as blood crusted under his nose. She was about to say something when Charles shifted forward and entered the room. It was then she noticed the young man hanging half-conscious on his arm.

"Charles...?"

He pursed his lips and raised his dark eyebrows. "I'm gonna put him in our bed for now. He just needs to sleep for a while."

Caroline caught a glimpse of the stranger as Charles moved past. He was young and had a head of long, curling, very dark hair. His skin was deeply tanned. His clothes were worn, but of a nice cut.

She wondered who he was.

"That husband of yours," Hiram said as he waited for Charles to return. "I never met a man so determined to find trouble."

She glanced toward their room. Charles had not emerged yet. "What trouble?"

He shook his head. "He ran afoul of Jim Rhodes and his cronies."

James Rhodes was a massive man, near a good head taller than Charles. He was a decent man – unless you crossed him.

"What was Jim upset about?"

Doctor Baker had been looking at her. He raised his eyes as Charles stepped into the room. Ignoring her question, the blond man asked, "How is our young friend doing?"

Charles walked over to the water bucket and took a drink. Then he took one of her towels and dipped it in the water and ran it over his mouth, wiping away the blood.

"He's out." Charles shook his head. "Probably a good thing, otherwise we'd have to tie him down."

Hiram angled his glasses down on his nose and looked over the top rim. He smiled. "I believe, Charles, that's what is known as the pot calling the kettle black. You should be in bed as well. You know those ribs of yours are only going to take so many blows before I can't repair them."

"Pa, are you okay?" a little voice drifted down from the loft.

She should have known. The noise had wakened their two older girls. Mary and Laura's faces had appeared at the top of the ladder leading up to the loft. Thank goodness, Carrie was still fast asleep.

"What happened, Pa?" Mary asked.

Charles remained partially hidden in the shadows. "I'm fine, darlin'. You two go back to bed. You need your sleep."

"But, Pa..."

"Half-pint, you listen to me. You go back to bed and take your sister with you. I'll see you in the mornin'."

A pitiful chorus of 'Yes, Pa,' followed Charles' orders and their capped heads disappeared.

Caroline stared after them a moment and then turned to Doctor Baker. "Is Charles all right?"

Hiram smiled. "Oh, he'll mend. Nothing broken this time, but Jim Rhodes certainly didn't hold back."

"He didn't win either," Charles mumbled.

"Oh, yes, that's right," the doctor scoffed. "The _victor_ is the one left standing – even if he only barely can."

Charles moved to the table where he gingerly sat down. Pitching the bloody towel on its surface, he said, "I spent more time makin' sure that boy in there didn't kill anyone than I did fightin'," he remarked. "I don't think Jim knew what hit him."

"You said the other two ran?" Caroline asked.

Her husband nodded. "You should have seen him, Caroline. It was like somethin' just snapped." Charles glanced toward the bedroom. The look on his face was one she had seen before, when he was concerned the family was facing some kind of a threat. Turning back, he added, "I've never seen anyone so wild."

"Don't you mean savage?" Hiram asked softly.

Charles made a noise.

Caroline looked from one to the other. There was something they weren't telling her. She thought about the young man and his dark hair and skin and then drew in a quick breath.

"He's an Indian!"

Now she understood Jim Rhodes' anger. The big man _hated_ Indians, plain and simple, and not only because of the Dakota War. Jim had lived out west as a young man. The Paiute had raided his spread, killing his wife, and burning their place to the ground. He _truly_ believed the only good Indian was a dead one.

Charles leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "We have to decide what to do, Caroline. It won't be long before Rhodes or him and some other men come here lookin' to take this boy and cart him off the reservation."

"Much as it pains me to say it, Charles, that's where he belongs. It would be for his own good," the Doctor said. He paused and then completed his thought. "You do know its _illegal_ to harbor an Indian on Minnesota soil."

Her husband was shaking his curly head. "Doc, the boy swears he's never lived on the reservation."

"And you believe him," Hiram said. "Why?"

"His age for one thing."

"His age?"

Charles nodded. "The Dakota War was sixteen years ago. He's that, maybe a year less or more. If the boy grew up on the reservation, he would have been there his whole life. Those clothes he's wearin' cost considerable money. They may be worn, but they're store bought. And he may look – and act – like a wild animal, but he speaks like a boy who has had an education, and not the kind they get in the Indian schools. That all points to the boy growin' up somewhere other than the useless parcel of land the government gave the Sioux."

The doctor was silent a moment. "You've got something there, Charles."

"And if the boy _isn't_ from the reservation, we can't let Jim Rhodes take him there. He'll be just another Indian. No one will listen to his story." Charles ran a hand over his face. "There won't be any way he'll ever leave it."

Caroline frowned. "I wonder who he is?"

"I'm hopin' he'll tell us," her husband replied. "My main concern is for you and the girls." He looked at Hiram. "You think he's hurt bad?"

The doctor cocked his head and pushed his hat back. "Well, he definitely took the worst of it. I'd say he has a few broken ribs and he's probably a concussion. One pupil was larger than the other when I checked. But then again, he's young and the young heal faster. Especially Indian young."

"Oh? Why is that?" she asked, knowing the doctor was not showing any prejudice.

"They're considered men at thirteen or so, Caroline. By that age they go through a number of rituals to prove their strength and agility. Their young men are taught that an injury gained in battle is a mark of honor. A lot of healing is in the mind. They learn early to ignore the pain and press on."

"Wish I could do that," Charles groaned as he shifted and stood up. "Try as I might the older I get, it just sticks to me like axle grease."

"What are you going to do?" Caroline asked him.

He looked at their room and then back at her. "See if Sleepin' Beauty's awake and if he is, find out what he's doin' here. There has to be a reason of some sort and if we're gonna help him, we need to find out what it is."

"Charles," she said.

He nodded. "I know. I don't want to put you or the girls in danger. Once he's able to be on his feet, I'll move him out to the sod house."

"What if Jim Rhodes' comes?"

Charles walked over to the hearth and lifted his rifle from the wall.

"I'll be ready," he said.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Charles Ingalls leaned against the doorjamb and studied the young man in his bed. There was an oil lamp lit on the table beside it and the warm glow softened their visitor's features, masking the hard, determined jut to the jaw and the premature lines that creased the boy's forehead and surrounded his full lips. He didn't know what the young man been through in the short span of years he'd walked the Earth, but whoever he was – and whatever he had seen – he had obviously been deeply wounded. Anger permeated his being, evidenced by how his fingers curled into fists even in his sleep.

The boy was a powder keg waiting to go off.

With a sigh Charles moved his aching body over to the chair opposite the bed and dropped into it. The fact that the young man didn't react concerned him. He'd tried to intervene, to stop the stranger from rainin' blow after blow on Jim Rhode's supine form, and in doing so had accidentally created an opening for one of Jim's cronies to step in and bring the butt of his rifle down on the boy's head with vicious force. Charles winced as he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. He'd incurred most of his own injuries from layin' spread-eagle over the young man, refusing to let Jim's friends take revenge. In the end the pair had grabbed Jim by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and slunk off into the night like the cowards they were.

Leaving him alone with the injured boy.

After checkin' the young man to make certain his injuries were not life-threatening, he'd gone to his team and unhitched the horses. Slinging the boy over the back of one, Charles had mounted the other and ridden straight to Doctor Baker's office. Fortunately, Hiram was there. The doctor had remained behind after hours to see to his books. The blond man opened his door, took the boy's condition in one glance, and immediately set to work bindin' up his broken ribs and seein' to his other less severe injuries. Then Hiram turned to him with a sigh and said he hoped _he_ hadn't injured his ribs – again. The curly-haired man laughed. Somehow, in the Doc's estimation, he had a feeling he'd earned a reputation as a scrapper.

Or maybe Hiram just thought he was a klutz!

After he finished with the boy, the Doc had offered him a chair and seen to his own small wounds, and then returned to his desk to conclude his work. A few minutes later as he closed his books and put them away, the blond man said he wasn't too worried about the boy's more obvious injuries. It was the concussion that concerned him. Since the boy had yet to regain consciousness, it was a severe one. He would need complete bed rest for a day or two, and then need to be kept under observation for a few more. Concussions were sneaky things, Hiram explained. Sometimes it seemed a man had recovered, and then, slowly, new symptoms would appear – dizziness, disorientation, moderate to severe headaches, maybe even nausea. A blow to the head was nothing to fool with, he said. It could kill a man.

Bracing his elbows on the chair arms, Charles knit his fingers together before him, pressed his lips to two of them, and regarded the sleeping boy. As he'd told the others, there was a story here. There was a reason the boy was in town and they would have to find out what it was. It was probably not going to be easy. Getting the truth out of their injured 'guest' was most likely gonna be like pullin' hen's teeth. In other words, near impossible. Just as impossible he imagined as keeping the boy in bed without tying him down. He'd learned a lot about the natives of the land when they'd lived in Kansas and had their house near one of their footpaths. After the pair had shown up at the house and scared Caroline and the girls, he'd made it a point to know all he could. He respected them. This was their land and they were losin' it, and not in a fair way. The government was determined that the Indian would soon be nothing more than a memory. Not all of the settlers agreed. Him, among them. But then there were others – like Jim Rhodes and his cronies– who would be only too happy to get hold of this boy and take him out in the woods where no one could see what they were doing, and string him up. Charles sighed. It seemed at times that men like Jim, who attended church regularly, only heeded the Old Testament. _'An eye for an eye',_ they cried. _'A sword to smite mine enemy!"_ But, ' _I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you'_ , just wasn't in their vocabulary.

There was no forgiveness in their hearts.

As he sat there thinking, the boy began to shift as if rising up toward consciousness. Charles stood, found his balance, and crossed to the side of the bed. He reached over and turned the wick up, bringing more light to the room and then reached out and touched the boy's shoulder.

"Son. Son, can you hear me?"

The boy's eyes opened without focus and closed. Once. Twice. _Three_ times.

Charles looked toward the kitchen. Caroline was there at the table with Doc Baker. Turned out Hiram hadn't had any supper and after they fed him, he'd fallen asleep in the rocking' chair in front of the fire. The blond man had awakened only a short time before and was havin' a cup of coffee before he hit the road.

It was nearly dawn.

"Son," he tried again.

The boy groaned and his eyes opened again. This time with some comprehension behind them. Charles studied him. He was gonna grow into a good-lookin' man. His face had strong features – those full lips, a straight knife-edge of a nose, and large dark piercing eyes wise as an owl's and wary as a mountain cat's. The stranger's hair was curly as his. He wore it kind of long, but not so long it would have been unacceptable on a white man. It was black in the lamplight and probably a dark brown by day.

Slipping onto the bed beside him, Charles reached out as he said, "I'm gonna check this bandage." There was one wrapped tightly around the boy's head. The blow from the rifle had cracked the skin open, but fortunately not his skull. "That all right?"

The boy hesitated. Then he nodded. Once.

Charles felt him tense as he touched the wrapping and looked beneath it. The blood was congealed and dried some, so it seemed the bleedin' had stopped.

"That's lookin' good," he said with a smile.

The boy didn't return it.

"Doctor Baker says you need to stay in bed for a day or two. You're welcome to do it here, only – "

A hand gripped his wrist – a _strong_ one. "No!" the boy said and with that, began to get up.

Charles caught his shoulders to press him back down.

It was a mistake.

The flurry of fists and feet startled him. As the curly-haired man cried out, he heard a similar cry go up from his wife. Shadows shifted beyond the room. A chair was pushed back. Hiram shouted to Caroline to stay put. Charles heard his daughter's cryin' out, askin' what was going on. And then, without knowing how he got there, he was on the floor. So was the boy.

The stranger hadn't made it two feet before he passed out again.

A short bark of a laugh brought his head up. Hiram Baker was standing in the doorway shaking his head.

"What was it I just said about that kettle being black?"


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

In the end he and Doc Baker picked the boy up and carried him out to the sod house. Caroline followed, but after making a pleasant bed for him, she returned to the house and the girls. It meant more time away from his family strictly devoted to the boy, but Charles just didn't feel comfortable leaving the volatile young man in the house. It also allowed him to lock the boy in for his own good.

He hadn't decided yet whether or not he was going to do that.

He and the doctor were standing on the raised stoop outside the sod house. Hiram was polishing his eyeglasses with a linen cloth. "I wonder who he is," he said, "and what he's doing in Walnut Grove."

There were rumors in the town of residents who had Indian in-laws they refused to acknowledge. There was so much hate left from the Dakota War people were afraid to admit it. It was like the Indians were monsters instead of men. While he disagreed with the savagery and killing done in the war, in the end the natives who had attacked the settlers were men who believed they were protecting their homes and their way of life. Could he fault that?

Had _he_ done any different when threatened?

Charles shook his head. "From the reaction I got last night, I doubt he's gonna tell us much of anything." He took several steps down toward the yard. "He'll probably heal up and be on his way and that will be the end of – "

"Charles."

He looked up at the Doctor. The blond man's face was unreadable. "What?"

Doc Baker nodded toward the road. "You've got company."

At that instant, Caroline opened the door and stepped out. "Charles, what's going on?"

"Get back in the house!" he shouted as he turned to look. "Now!"

Riding down the road, just about to make the turn into the yard, were a dozen men. Some were on foot and others led their horses. At the head of them was Jim Rhodes; his eye black, his face swollen, and his jaw jutted out in defiance. By the way he swayed on his feet, it was obvious he was intoxicated. Charles' gaze swept over the other men. He wondered if they were as well.

Hiram joined him as the men drew to a halt in front of the sod house.

"You got that Injun here?" Rhodes demanded.

"What's it to you if I do?" Charles countered. "This is my property."

Rhodes glanced at the man at his side. Charles recognized him as Jeremy Stokes, a well-known Indian hater. There were other men from the town too, including the pair that had been with Rhodes the night before. Some looked uncertain.

Most just angry.

"It may be your property, Ingalls, but it's our town," Stokes proclaimed. "We don't want any stinkin' heathens here."

The men around him nodded and grunted their assent.

Charles hesitated, choosing his words. It seemed to him that the 'heathens' in the town were in front of and _not_ behind him.

"The Good Book says to love your enemies, Jeremy. Jim." Charles remained firmly planted where he was even as several of the men dismounted and moved up the low hill. "It seems to me you are forgetting that."

He thought it might shame them. He was wrong.

It infuriated them.

"That only counts for white men!" someone, unseen, shouted from the back of the mob.

"Indians ain't even human!" another cried.

"What's the problem, Indian lover? He one of your own?"

Charles stiffened with rage. Hiram's hand on his shoulder and his soft words checked it before he could do something he would regret.

"It's not worth it, Charles," he said near his ear. " _They're_ not worth it."

Several deeps breaths calmed him – somewhat.

"Get off my land!" Charles shouted.

"Truth hurt, Ingalls?" Jim Rhodes said, his tone snide as he advanced a few steps forward. "We know the half-breed was in town asking for you. Has to be a reason. We figured maybe you got a _special_ reason for lovin' Injuns."

He frowned. "What do you mean, 'asking' for me?"

"He came in the Oleson's store looking for you specific, Ingalls," an anonymous voice answered. "Gotta be a reason."

Charles glanced at the doctor who shrugged. Turning back to the crowd, the curly-haired man stared at them a moment and then walked boldly forward. Stopping in front of Jim Rhodes, he said, "Look, why don't you go home, Jim? Nothing good can come of you being here in this condition. Let me deal with this. I'll see what the boy wants."

Quicker than his eye could follow, Jim's hand shot out and caught him by the collar. "I ain't drunk enough to miss what's going on!" he snarled. "You need to think about your family, Ingalls. You're breaking the law, harboring a savage. " Jim looked back at the men with him. One of them beckoned to him. With a final grunt, the man released him and rejoined them. Seeking safety in numbers, no doubt. "It's no wonder the town folk are thinkin' what they're thinkin'," he called from their midst. "Why else would you take the chance of endin' up in jail?"

Even as his fingers formed into fists, Hiram cautioned. "Charles, he's not worth it."

Rhodes was grinning like a fat cat with his paw on the mouse's tail. He _knew_ what the Doc meant, but he twisted it another way.

"The Doc's right, Ingalls. No half-breed is worth it," Jim said, his lips curling with disdain. "I wonder if Mrs. Ingalls knew what else you'd had before her?"

Jim was goading him.

It worked.

His temper lost, Charles marched straight into the middle of the roiling, angry mass of men. Even though Rhodes was a big man, _he_ was a farmer, which meant he was well-muscled and powerful as well. Jim was already hurtin' and Charles saw fear enter the drunkard's eyes as he rolled his sleeves up and pushed through the crowd until they were toe to toe.

"Jim, I'm gonna give you one chance to make things right," Charles said, his jaw set; his tone even. "Just _one_."

"Ingalls," Jeremy Stokes said, "you know he didn't mean it."

"I know no such thing!" he countered sharply. "I take a man at his word, no matter how revoltin' that word is." Holding Jim Rhodes' gaze, he said, "I'd like an apology, Jim. _Now_ , before this gets out of hand."

Rhodes stood there, blinking, for several heartbeats. Then, instead of offering an apology he said, "I don't understand you, Ingalls. Why would you stick up for a dirty half-breed if he means nothing to you?"

For a moment, he had nothing to say. How did you put into words a truth that should be intrinsic to a man's soul?

Charles felt Doctor Baker's presence beside him. The blond man had pushed through the crowd as well, joining him in friendship and in peril.

"That _half-breed_ , as you call him, is first and foremost a boy." He looked at his neighbors, holding their gazes, moving from one to the next. "A boy like yours, Luke. Like your son, Jeremy. Jim. He has a father and mother somewhere who love him. Maybe brothers and sisters. He has a heart and a soul and a mind, and he's your neighbor just as surely as I am. God is not partial . There's nowhere in the Good Book that says a man is not your neighbor because his skin is a different color and his ways are not your ways. And even if it did – even _if_ God called that man your 'enemy' – we're commanded, not asked _, commanded_ by the risen Lord to love our enemies as ourselves and to do good to those who persecute us!" Charles drew a deep breath to steady himself. He was shaking. Again, he looked from man to man.

"I am ashamed of you all."

The silence was profound. One by one the men surrounding and supporting Jim Rhodes began to scatter, turning back toward town and riding away. Charles stood there until it was just him and Jim. He was hoping the man would listen. That his good sense would prevail.

That when he stuck his hand out Jim would take it and they would shake and that would be the end of it.

 _If wishes were horses, Pa_ , Laura would have told him.

Jim's watery, red-rimmed eyes flicked to the sod house and then back to him.

"This isn't over, Ingalls," he said and then he mounted his bay and was gone.

"I wish I could invent a cure-all for stupidity," Hiram sighed. "I'd make a fortune."

Charles was so infuriated with Rhodes and the other men that his muscles were tense and his head felt like the top would pop off. He wanted to ram his fist into something and since it couldn't _be_ Jim Rhodes, he'd been thinking about a nearby tree.

The doctor's words acted as a balm and he began to laugh.

"Well, now," Hiram said, shoving his hat back on his head, "maybe I _do_ have something to bottle."

Charles shook his head. "I'm an idiot."

"Not that I dispute that," the doctor said with a wry twist to his lips, "but what is it makes _you_ think so?"

He ran a hand through his curly hair and shook his head. "Letting Jim Rhodes goad me like that. What do I care what he or any of them have to say about me?"

Hiram was suddenly sober. "A man's character, Charles, is worth protecting. Like you said, a man is taken at his word and it's his _character_ that makes that word worth something." The doctor sighed. "A reputation is something that is very easily lost and very hard to regain. That's why God's against gossip."

Gossip.

Charles glanced at the blond man and then turned in the direction the mob had gone. What was it that anonymous voice had said? The Indian boy came into _Oleson's_ looking for him?

"Harriet," he breathed between clenched teeth.

Hiram snorted. "There's a reputation never to be sullied since Harriet only considers one opinion important – her own." His friend paused and then added, his tone cautionary. "You're not thinking about going into the mercantile, are you?"

Oh, he _wanted_ to, and he'd be damned if he didn't eventually, but now was not the right time. For one thing, Doc Baker would do everything in his power to stop him. And for another – there was the injured Indian boy in his sod house. Whoever he was, at the moment, _he_ was his first concern.

"No," he said at last. As Hiram relaxed, he added with a wicked grin. "I'll just ask her about it on Sunday. Maybe _in_ church."

"Charles?"

It was Caroline. He'd forgotten about her and the girls. They were probably terrified.

With a nod to the doctor, Charles crossed over to the front door of his house where his wife waited. Once there, he drew her into his arms.

She was trembling.

"Are they gone?" she asked against his shoulder.

"Yes," he replied as he planted a kiss on her hair and then cupped her cheek with his hand. "Were you listening?" he asked.

Caroline nodded.

"What about the girls?"

"I kept them busy," she answered, "but they heard some of it. Those men. They were shouting..."

He nodded. "I'll talk to them later." Charles looked at the sod house. He thought he saw a small movement near the window that faced the road. "But right now I need to go talk to our guest. Jim told me the boy came to town looking specifically for me."

She looked as surprised as he felt. "For _you?_ Whatever for?"

The curly-haired man shrugged. "That's why I need to talk to him. To find out."

His wife's gaze flicked to the sod house and back to him. "Is it safe?"

Charles snorted. "Safe enough. He's just a boy, but from what I've seen, he could probably take me if he wanted to."

"Oh, Charles..."

"Caroline, now don't you go worryin' about me. The boy came to Walnut Grove to see me. I doubt he's thinking of doing me any harm."

He could see it in her eyes. She was still frightened, just like she'd been in Kansas. Even though their acquaintance with Soldat Du Chene, the Osage Indian Chief, had gone a long way toward easing the fear that came from confronting a culture and people so different from themselves, his wife still carried some of it with her.

"Charles, some Indians just hate white men," she cautioned.

"Just like some white men hate anything Indian. Someone's gotta break that cycle, Caroline."

Charles hid his smile. Her lips were pursed and her nose had wrinkled in that cute little way it did when she knew he was right but wanted to say he was wrong.

"I know, but... Does it have to be _you?"_

"It's got to be someone, and I'm the only one around." Looking over his shoulder, he added with a wink, "Unless you want to do it, Hiram?"

The doctor laughed as he repositioned his hat on his head. "Take on an angry teener? I'll leave that to the one with experience with children. Besides, I need to get to my rounds." With a nod, Hiram headed for his buggy. When he got there, he turned back and shook a finger. "No more house calls for you, Charles! You keep well away from that boy if it seems like he's going to get violent. You hear?"

Charles waved back. "I will!"

As the two of them watched Doctor Baker pull away, Caroline snuggled against him. With a sigh, she asked, "Are you going to talk to the boy right now? Breakfast is ready."

He looked at the sod house. He hadn't locked the door. Then again, the boy _had_ come looking for him so it was unlikely he would try to run away.

"I'll eat first and then I can take some food out to him." Charles looked at the house. "Besides, I want to talk to the girls before they go back to town."

"About the boy, you mean, and the people in the town like Jim Rhodes?" Caroline asked as they began to walk.

He nodded nodded. Then he sighed.

"That, and Harriet Oleson's tongue."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Laura sat on the side of her bed waiting for her sister. Mary was helping Ma rede up the dishes and then she was supposed to come up and join her. Pa'd told them once they had breakfast done to go upstairs 'cause he wanted to talk to them. She didn't think they'd done anythin' wrong, but figured it had to do with what had happened outside when Mister Rhodes and all those men had come that mornin'. They'd looked pretty mean and she was sure Pa was gonna tell them to stick close to home and not take any chances and that meant no fishin' or swimmin' or even runnin' in the fields today. Laura leaned forward and balanced her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. With a sigh, she blew the wisp of reddish-brown hair off her forehead. It was already the end of May and spring was flyin' fast as a hawk on the wing. It wouldn't be too long before they were out of school, done with spendin' their days and nights with their noses in books.

Not that she didn't like learnin', but a body got tired sometimes with all those words and equations swimmin' around in their head.

Laura let out another sigh and flopped back on her bed. As she did, she heard the creak of a foot on the ladder rung. It sounded too heavy for Mary. Rolling over, Laura looked.

Sure enough, it was Pa.

"Hey, Half-pint," he said as his foot hit the floor.

"Hey, Pa!" She grinned as she sat up. "This room sure does look small when you stand up in here. You're like to hit your head."

"Well, then, I guess I'd better sit down," he laughed. And he did.

Laura glanced at the ladder. "Is Mary coming?"

Pa pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, your Ma needs help with Carrie. She's gonna talk to her." He popped his thick brown brows up and smiled. "Guess that means you're stuck with me alone."

She leaned in and carefully circled his waist with her arm, mindful of the hurt he'd taken. "I couldn't be stuck with you, Pa. I love bein' alone with you."

He hugged her back as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. Then he sat there. He didn't say anything. Just sat there.

After a minute she couldn't stand it. "What did you want to talk to me about, Pa?"

"Oh, a couple of things."

A few seconds past.

"Like?" she asked.

Her pa drew in a deep breath of air. As he let it out, he scooted toward the wall and braced his back against it. Patting the bed beside him, he drew her in and circled her with his arm. Meeting her eyes, he asked, "Half-pint, what did you hear of what went on outside this mornin'?"

"With Mister Rhodes, you mean?"

He nodded.

Ma had shooed them back in the house when they tried to follow her out the door. Mary had gone to play with Carrie. She, well, she went upstairs to the loft room to make her bed and tidy their room.

But she didn't.

When she kept her silence, her pa asked, "Did you listen at the window?"

Laura nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Did your Ma tell you not too?"

She nodded again.

Pa shifted away from her so he could look her in the eye. "Do you know why?"

"Ma said it was because we wouldn't understand what we was hearin' and it would confuse or scare us."

"And did it?"

Laura let out a little sigh. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me what you heard."

She was looking at her hands. "Well, sir, I heard all that mean talk comin from Mister Rhodes. He _sure_ does hate that Indian boy. Those other men do too." Laura glanced at him. "It was kind of like Marshal Anders and how he hated Mister Lame Horse. But he learned better."

Her father was nodding. "Yes, and that's what Jim and the others will have to do. Learn to know the boy and then they wont fear him."

"Fear him?" she asked. "You mean that big old Mister Rhodes is afraid of that scrawny Indian boy you took out to the sod house?"

"He's afraid of what the boy _represents_ , Laura," Pa said. Whenever he called her 'Laura' she knew Pa was real serious so she sat right up and listened close. "You know the word 'prejudice', right?"

"Sure thing, Pa. Miss Beadle says it means to pre-judge someone and that the Good Book tells us we aren't supposed to judge what's in someone's heart or soul."

He touched her hair with his hand and smiled. "That's right." Pa hesitated. He looked like he had something more to say he didn't want to.

Laura wondered if she was in trouble for listening at the window.

"What does the Good Book say about gossip?" he asked.

 _That_ wasn't what she'd expected.

She thought a moment. "Well, it says in Proverbs eighteen that the words of a talebearer are as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly." Laura paused. "How come you're askin' about gossip, Pa?"

In truth, she thought she might know but wasn't sure.

"Did you hear anythin' or see anythin' else this morning that confused you?" he asked.

Laura frowned. "Well, I..."

"Go on."

She could see it happenin' in her head. Pa was talkin' all calm and then Mister Rhodes said that funny thing and she thought Pa was gonna take his head off. "How come you didn't get mad at Mister Rhodes until he said what he did about wonderin' if Ma knew what you'd had before her?"

It puzzled her mightily.

Her Pa looked kind of sick. He drew in a breath and let it out slow, like he was mad all over again.

"I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't –"

He took her hand in his and squeezed it. "There's nothing you've done wrong, Laura," Pa said firmly. "Oh, you should of obeyed your Ma, but that has nothing to do with...this."

"Has it got to do with gossiping?"

Pa paused again, like he was lookin' for the right words. "Do you know why the Good Book says its best for a man to labor?"

"No, sir. Not really."

"When the Apostle Paul was writing to the Thessalonians, he talked to them about work. _'We were not idle when we were with you...but with toil and labor we worked night and day,'_ he said. Then he went on and finished, ' _If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat. For we hear that some among you walk in idleness, not busy at work, but_ _busybodies_ _._ '

She'd heard Pa use that word before. Usually when he was talkin about Nellie's mother. "You're talkin' about Mrs. Oleson, aren't you?" she asked.

Pa snorted. "How'd you know that, Half-pint?"

She shrugged. "It's usually about her when you use that word. That and 'battleaxe."

The snort turned to a chuckle as Pa shook his head and put a finger to his lips. "Shh,' your ma might hear."

She giggled. She liked sharin' secrets with Pa.

"Your ma doesn't like either of those words, but you know, the Good Book also says to tell the truth," Pa said, growing sober. "Harriet Oleson has too much money and too much time on her hands, and she spends most of it with her nose stuck in other people's business."

"Was she in _your_ business, Pa?"

He took both her hands in his and held her gaze. "Laura, I don't _have_ any business with that boy. I never saw him before last night, and I have no idea why he's come lookin' for me. Harriet, well..." He thought a moment. "Harriet's makin' up stories since she don't know the truth and spreadin' them. I just wanted you and your sister to know before you go into town tomorrow, that there's no truth to anythin' you might hear her or Nellie say."

"That old Nellie," Laura said, shaking her head, "she's _worse_ than her Ma."

"I know." Pa squeezed her fingers again. "So I want you to make me a promise."

"Yes, sir?"

"Promise me you'll ignore anythin' you hear and you won't go and pop Nellie on the nose for sayin' it."

Laura scowled. "Do I _gotta,_ Pa?"

"Gotta what?"

"Promise _not_ to pop Nellie." She sighed. "It's awful hard to make it through a day without doin' it."

He nodded. "Yep. I need your _solemn_ promise."

Straightening up, Laura met his gaze. She laid her hand on her heart and said, "I promise I won't pop Nellie Oleson in the nose for anything she says about you and that Indian boy."

Pa looked thoughtful. "Good," he said as he gave her a hug. "Thank you."

A minute later she was sitting on her bed watching Pa go down the ladder. He was going out to the sod house to talk to the Indian boy. Crossing to her window, Laura watched him as he left the house and disappeared around the corner. As he did, she looked toward town.

No siree, she wouldn't pop old Nellie in the nose if she started to tell lies about Pa.

She'd just shove her into a mud puddle instead.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

Charles stood just within the entry of the sod house. It was late morning and the sun had not yet reached the angle where it would penetrate the interior, so the room was dark. He couldn't see the boy at first, but he could hear his fitful breathing. Apparently he felt comfortable enough to sleep.

That was one small victory.

Caroline had sent a basket filled with food and drink with him. Crossing over to the table beside the bed, he placed it on its surface and then sat on the low chair beside it. He hadn't really had time to think about his injuries. His side was aching mightily and his head smarting. It was nothin' he couldn't deal with – he'd suffered far worse at the hands of the Gallenders – but, still, he would much rather have been in the house doin' what Doc Baker had told him to do than sitting in this bare bones place waiting to talk to a hostile young man who had come huntin' for him but wanted nothin' to do with him.

 _Why_ had he come, he wondered?

The only place he'd had frequent contact with the native population of the land was in Kansas, and that had been precious little. Of course there _had_ been the incident with the blizzard a few months back where Jack Lame Horse had saved his life. Still, that hardly qualified as contact. Lame Horse hadn't uttered a single word in the time they'd spent together. Besides, there was little chance this young man was connected to the Sioux chief. He was too young for one. If he was fifteen or sixteen, as he suspected, the boy would have been born just as the war ended or after when the Indians were on the run. On top of that, it was obvious he had white blood.

Lame Horse didn't.

As he sat there, thinking, Charles became aware of the fact that he was being watched. The boy had not moved, but his breathing had evened out and he had grown still. He pretended not to notice, allowing the young man to grow comfortable with his presence. He knew that natives thought white men were hasty; that they were impatient and unable to maintain silence for long.

Charles leaned back in the chair and balanced his head on the wall and waited.

And waited.

Outside the sun shifted toward the west and its beams cut in through the window, painting golden squares on the earthen floor. The heat made him sleepy, as did the drone of the flies that hovered over Caroline's basket of food. Charles shifted and straightened up. He should be outside working, though he was sure Doc Baker would be happy that he was sitting still.

His lips quirked at the ends.

Truth to tell, he really _wasn't_ good at sitting.

"You are Charles Ingalls?" a surly voice asked, breaking the silence.

Charles blinked and looked. The young man was sitting up, propped against the wall behind the bed.

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I heard you were lookin' for me."

The Indian boy was staring – no, _glaring_ at him. "How do I know you are Charles Ingalls?" he demanded.

Charles shrugged. "Well, plain and simple, you don't. You'll have to take my word for it."

"The word of a _white_ man," the boy spat.

"Well, unless you thought 'Charles Ingalls' was an Indian, which I doubt, you _knew_ what you were gonna find when you got here. A white man's word is the only word I've got."

"It is useless!"

Charles hesitated. Then he stood up. "So is this conversation," he said as he headed for the door. "There's food in the basket." His hand on the latch, he turned back. "I'll come back later for the – "

"Do not go."

Was that a plea or an order?

With a sigh, he turned back. "Look..." Charles paused. He knew natives were not free with their names, but... "Unless you want me to call you, 'boy', I'd suggest you – "

"The white men call me Alan," the gruff youth answered sullenly.

Which meant it wasn't his true name.

Charles nodded. "Thank you, Alan. Now look, I understand you don't trust or like me. That's all right. I don't trust or like you either." When the boy looked startled, he went on. "We don't know each other. Trust is something that's earned. So is friendship. I'm not askin' either of those of you. All I'm asking, Alan, is for you to tell me why you felt it necessary to risk your life to come to Walnut Grove to find me?" When the boy said nothing, he added, "I cant help you if you don't tell me what kind of help it is you need – "

" _I_ need no help!" Alan spat. "It is...my grandfather." The boy's chin jutted out and before he said it, Charles knew. He saw it in the determined set of his face; in his hazel eyes. "I come for Jack Lame Horse."

Releasing the latch, he returned to the chair and sat down. The sunlight that penetrated the window illuminated the boy's rail-thin form. It was rigid.

"Jack Lame Horse sent you?" he asked, surprised.

Something passed over the boy's face – emotions running like quicksilver. "Yes," he replied.

When he said nothing else, Charles asked, "Is he in trouble?"

"He is in the white man's jail!" the boy snapped. "He is to be hanged!"

Charles sat up. "What for? Not for the war? He was pardoned by Abraham Lincoln."

"So _you_ know. So I _and_ grandfather know. The judge does not know, nor the white men who will condemn him to hang on _other_ white men's lies!"

Charles wondered what the story was here. If the boy _was_ Jack Lame Horse's grandson, that meant the Sioux chief had a daughter or a son who went against their tribe to marry a white. It was obvious from his speech and clothing that Alan had not been raised on the reservation, and yet he just as obviously hated white men.

"Where are your mother and father?" Charles asked.

Again, emotion flitted over the boys face – pain, grief, hate, rage...

"They are dead," he said and then fell silent, as if that explained it all. "There is no one but grandfather and soon, he too will be dead."

Charles pondered Alan's words for a moment. Though he put on a brave front, the boy was scared.

"What do you think I can do?" he asked at last.

It was about all the boy could do to say it, and when he did, it came out as a statement and not a request. "Come with me."

"Come with you and do what?" Charles asked, astounded.

"You are a white man. The white man's law will listen to you. Grandfather told me," Alan paused. When he continued, it was almost more than he could do to say the words, "Grandfather told me you are a good man. He said... He said you saved him from the white man's law before. You must do so again."

Charles shook his head. "I can't just up and take off, I have crops to bring in, and –"

"Grandfather also told me that he saved your life." Alan's voice was low; intense. "Is this not true?"

He remained silent a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes, it's true."

Alan held his gaze.

"Then tell me this, Charles Ingalls, is not yours the life-debt to repay?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline stood by the door listening to Mary read to Carrie. The two girls were sitting in their youngest daughter's downstairs room. From where she was, she could see the sunlight strike her eldest's hair and turn it to spun-gold. Mary was such a help to her. She didn't know how she would have managed without her. Still, she worried about the child at times. Mary was a deep thinker and less apt to express her opinions than Laura. When she'd talked to her about the young man her father had brought home and the trouble it might bring them, the blonde girl had simply nodded. Mary said she would be sure to keep Laura out of trouble when they went into town in the morning to drop off the eggs at Olesons.

That was it.

It had been hard to talk to her daughter about, well, what she had to talk to her about. Mary was still a child but, at nearly eleven, was old enough to understand what went on between a man and a woman. It was hard in a small house to hide much of anything and, as Charles liked to remind her, the joy of the marriage bed was a blessing God had visited on man and womankind. Still, no matter how natural or, Caroline smiled, _pleasurable_ it was, it was still hard to talk about. Jim Rhodes' ridiculous insinuations were something she would have rather overlooked, but it was inevitable – with Harriet Oleson carrying tales – that one of the girls' schoolmates would repeat something a parent or neighbor had said. It was best it came from them instead. Mary had listened with her head down and nodded and again, said nothing.

Unfortunately Mary was also old enough to begin to understand the fallen state of man.

Turning away from the girls, the blonde woman crossed back over to the stove to check on the chicken cooking in the pot. She was going to make chicken pies and needed to get the meat done at about the same time as the crusts, which was why she needed Mary. Glancing up as she passed the ladder to the loft, she wondered how much Charles had told Laura. While their middle daughter was younger, she was just as, if not _more_ perceptive than Mary, especially when it came to her Pa. The child was fierce in her love for her father and would do anything to protect him or his name. Caroline sighed as she shoved a lock of loose hair out of her eyes and took hold of the spoon.

There was definitely another black eye or bloody nose in Nellie Oleson's future!

The thought of her little girl taking down Harriet Oleson's tall bully of a daughter brought another smile to Caroline's face along with a healthy dose of guilt. The Reverend Alden would be the first to remind her that the good Lord would have no part in wishing harm to another human being.

Then again, to sin _was_ human...

"Caroline, do you have a minute?"

She turned to find Charles' strong, muscular frame silhouetted in the open doorway.

"What do you need?"

He hesitated and then said, "I'd like to talk to you...outside."

"The chicken's almost done," she replied. "Give me about five minutes."

"I'll be in the barn."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Five minutes later, leaving the house and the chicken in Mary's hands, she went to find her husband. She found Charles sitting on a hay bale and staring down at his hands, which were linked between his knees. Caroline went to his side and sat down and placed her hands over his.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I have to go away," he said without preamble.

The blonde woman blinked. Her gaze shot to the sod house, which was visible through the open barn door. "With that boy?"

"Alan," he said, not looking at her. "His name is Alan."

The loneliness of weeks spent without her husband with all that entailed opened up before her. Sad to say, her reply sounded churlish, "Whatever for?"

He glanced at her. "I know. The timing's bad. I'll talk to Isaiah about keepin' a watch on the crops and doin' what has to be done."

When he said no more, she prompted in a softer tone, "You didn't answer my question."

Charles reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it, and then stood and walked to the door. With his hands planted firmly in his pockets, he looked out.

"There's a debt I've got to pay," he said at last.

Caroline went to join him. He was staring at the sod house, thinking, no doubt, of the young stranger within its earthen walls. As she wrapped her hands around his arm, she asked, "A debt to this boy?"

"No. Before last night, I didn't know Alan existed."

"Then to who?"

He looked at her. "To Alan's grandfather."

"His...what? His grandfather?" She could tell Charles was serious, but she had no idea what he was talking about. The boy was of mixed heritage. He would have _two_ grandfathers – one white and one a red man. But if Charles had never seen him before, how could he know either of them? They'd only known a few Indians you could count as anything more than strangers – Soldat du Chene was one. Another was...

"Jack Lame Horse," she said, suddenly understanding.

Charles smiled. "You can see it, can't you? It's in the boy's eyes. In the way he stands."

She let out a sigh of her own. "He's certainly proud."

"But not too proud to ask for help," Charles countered. "The authorities are planning on hanging his grandfather."

"Charles, no!" She released him and stepped back so she could meet his troubled gaze. "Hasn't that man been through enough? Marshal Anders said he'd been pardoned by Abraham Lincoln. Can someone do that?"

He blew a breath out of his nose and shook his head. "It's the frontier, Caroline. It's easy to plead ignorance when it suits your purpose – and hard for the truth to catch up before it's too late."

She shook her head. "But what can _you_ do about it?"

Charles shrugged. "I'm not sure I can do anything, but I have to try. Alan seems to think my telling my story, of how Lame Horse saved the life of a _white_ man – and one he didn't know – might move the court toward leniency." His hand found her cheek. "I owe Lame Horse my life, Caroline. I have to go."

"Where?" she asked, her voice small.

"Mankato. Since the war's over, its a civil case. The circuit judge is due there in a week or so."

"A week or _so?"_

It came out as more of a whine than she intended.

"I know. It means I might be away near a month all told. Caroline, I don't want to go, but I don't see how I can say 'no'."

There were times and – if she was honest – there were _many_ , when she had a momentary wish that Charles was a different kind of man, one who took obligations a little less seriously, who was more prone to take than give; a man who put himself and his own needs first before others. Then, of course, she chided herself for being a fool – if he was, he wouldn't _be_ Charles.

"I understand," she said at last.

"Do you? Do you _really?"_

The blond woman caught her lip between her teeth and nodded.

"But?" he asked. "Go ahead, tell me. I want it all out in the open between us."

Her eyes shot to the sod house where the boy, Alan, was – the boy who had already brought her husband harm. Looking at Charles again she noted the black eye, the bruising around his lips – the way he held himself as if his body was hurting.

"Can you trust him? Alan, I mean?" she asked at last.

He shrugged. "Truth to tell, Caroline, I don't know that I can. But if I can't hold my own against one scrawny teener boy, then I'd better toss in my hat."

"It's not..." She paused. She _knew_ how he was. Charles would say she was worrying needlessly. Still...

"It's not Alan I'm worried about, but other men who might mean him and _you_ harm. Someone who might come looking for him and find _you."_

Charles met her worried gaze. "That kind of men are cowards, Caroline. I'm not afraid of them."

That was another thing she wished now and then, that Charles would be just a little bit _more_ afraid.

Anyhow, it was pointless to argue. He'd made his mind up to do what was right and she could only love him the more for it.

"When will you leave?" she asked.

"As soon as I talk to Isaiah and get things in order. Most likely around suppertime. I don't think its wise for Alan to remain here any longer than he has to, for a number of reasons."

The safety of his home, wife, and children being the chief one.

"I'll pack your things," she said as she began to move past him.

Charles caught her arm and halted her. "I'm going to ask Isaiah to stay a night or two. I don't want you and the girls alone in case someone gets it in their head that Alan is still here. Once they know I've gone, it should be all right."

She shivered. "Charles, you're frightening me."

"I don't mean too. It's just, well, there's no telling what Jim Rhodes might do. He might come out to take the boy and when Alan's not here..." Her husband paused. "Jim might have been drinking again, you know? I'll just feel better knowin' there's a man in the house 'til things quiet down."

"The girls will certainly be happy," she answered with a forced smile.

"But not you?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

Charles knew she loved Isaiah, even though she _didn't_ always love the chaos that came along with him.

"Me? Well, let's see, the girls will beg Isaiah to sing and dance, and then they'll beg me to let them stay up until all hours. They won't get their sleep and neither will I, so they'll be grumps about getting out of bed and doing their chores and... " She rolled her eyes. "What's _not_ to be happy about?"

He cocked one dark, thick eyebrow. "You know you'll love every minute of it."

It was true. She would.

But she'd never admit it to _him_.

"Maybe," she replied with a little smile.

"Ma!"

They both turned toward the house. Mary was standing in the open door with Carrie behind her.

"Yes, dear?"

"I think the chicken's done. Should I take it off the stove?"

With a glance at her husband, she called back. "I'll come check it."

"I'm gonna head over to Isaiah's," Charles said.

Caroline nodded. "Tell him no teaching Laura how to spit. And no chewing tobacco. And absolutely _no_ liquor."

"So no fun?" he asked, wearing a mock frown.

Her hands went to her hips. "Charles Ingalls, whatever am I going to do with you?"

Her husband circled her waist with his strong hands and drew her into a kiss. In the distance, she heard Laura giggle. Her middle child must have joined her sisters on the stoop.

"What're you laughin' at, Half-pint?" Charles called out.

"You gonna kiss her again, Pa?" the child called back teasingly. "You know Ma don't like it when you do that in the middle of the day."

He looked at her. "That true?"

Caroline rolled her eyes. "Well, someone around here has to maintain some sense of decorum."

"Oh. Decorum, huh?"

She scowled. "Yes, _decorum_. Some sense of respectability."

"You hear that, Laura?" Charles shouted back. "What do you think your Pa's responsibility is?"

"To kiss Ma in the middle of the day!" all three girls shouted back.

Amidst a chorus of laughter – and before she could think to stop him – Charles swept her up off of her feet and carried her toward the house.

"Charles, really!" she chided. "What are your daughters going to think?"

"Think? There ain't nothin' to 'think'," he replied. Looking at the girls, he asked, "What do you _know?"_

"That Pa loves Ma and Ma loves Pa right back!" Laura shouted.

"Pa loves Ma!" Carrie echoed. "Ma loves Pa!"

Mary's smile was shy. "And kissing's okay even in the middle of the day."

Charles turned back to her. His green eyes were sparkling.

"You hear that, Mrs. Ingalls. I got no choice."

Caroline glanced at her girls and then back at their father. Before Charles could think to do anything, she caught his face in her hands and, amidst gales of girlish giggles, planted a very wet and _very_ noisy kiss on his lips.

No, he didn't.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Alan Drummond scowled as he watched Charles Ingalls interact with his children and wife through the sod house window and considered all he knew about the white man. From what he had been told, it seemed Ingalls was a good man – a white father and husband who had risked his life and family during the late spring blizzard to save _his_ red grandfather. Then, again, he had been told many things in his brief life.

Most of them lies.

The young man turned to stare into the sod house, noting the soft luxury of a white man's world even here in what amounted to little more than a store room – curtains on the windows, a wooden bed with a thick coverings; more than enough food, stacked in sacks and kept in kegs against a time of hunger that might not come. He had found there were many motivations for a white man's actions. Self-sacrifice _could_ be one of them, but more likely his actions had to do with some kind of personal gain. The fact that the U.S. marshal, Jim Anders, had been waiting at the abandoned house where Charles Ingalls took his grandfather spoke more words than his tongue. Alan believed Jack Lame horse's capture was the white man's intention all along. After all, Ingalls was not new to the frontier. He would have known better than to risk going out in such a storm. Alan's jaw grew tight along with his fingers as they clenched into fists. He blew out an enraged breath of air and sucked it in with even more anger.

It had been a trap.

Still, even _if_ he chose to believe the story he'd been told, that Ingalls had known nothing of Anders' presence in the cabin, it proved nothing. While Ingalls might have been grateful for his life and may have helped his grandfather to escape, had the circumstances been different and the farmer's family not in danger, he would have gladly joined with the marshal in betraying the old chief and handing him over to the white man's justice.

The young warrior spit in the dirt.

He knew white men. They were all the same.

It was even possible that _this_ white man had a hand in what was happening to his grandfather right now. Ingalls could have gone to the authorities after arriving home in Walnut Grove. He could have wired the authorities and told them where his grandfather had gone in order to keep his own neck out of a noose. With such a man, nothing could be taken on face value.

Life had taught him that.

Alan turned back to the window and watched Ingalls' wife take the hands of two of her children and lead them into the house. The sight of her sickened him. His mother had been the same – thin, of medium height and blonde; a pious Bible-quoting white woman who claimed she loved a native man, and then did all that was within in her power to destroy who and what he was. A woman who wheedled and cajoled until the warrior who was his father gave in, choosing to live as a white man and to pretend that the child she bore him had no red blood in his veins.

A woman who watched as the man she 'loved' grew quiet and then discouraged, and finally so miserable and dejected that he sought his own destruction and found it at the end of a bottle.

Alan turned from the window as memories of past betrayals drove him to pace. Then there were his white grandparents, a minister and his wife who took him and his mother in when his father vanished without a word. His white grandfather was a hard man who showed little emotion other than rage. His white grandmother, who quoted the white man's Bible just like his mother to justify her actions, hated natives but loved her daughter. He was accepted on the condition that no further word ever be uttered about his being an Indian. His skin was light and so he was able to pass for a child of mixed blood. Spanish was acceptable. Even saying he was from the West Indies. But he could not say what he _truly_ was and so he began to wither within.

Then there was Jack Lame Horse. The old chief had not proven to be what he seemed either. His native grandfather had sought him out, catching him in the woods one day when he was hunting. He had been ten or eleven years old at the time and knew nothing of the ways of the native. Without his mother's knowledge, the two of them began to meet regularly, and Jack Lame Horse began to teach him all he needed to know to survive off the land – how to hunt with a spear, how to clean a carcass with the knife, how to be stealthy and to walk with no sound so he could pass like a shadow before men's eyes. But most of all his red grandfather taught him of the Creator of his people; of a loving God who accepted him for who and what he was. For five years Jack Lame Horse came, bringing joy into the misery of his existence and then –

One day he came no more.

At first he waited patiently and then, he began to seek him. The first few weeks he waited at their meeting place, sleeping overnight at times. Then he began to travel farther afield, worrying his mother with his absences that grew longer as the months progressed. The last time he had been gone about two weeks and had returned to the ultimate betrayal. His family's desertion was complete. While he had been away searching the hills, a plague had swept through the local towns, carrying off his elderly grandparents and leaving his mother distracted and bereaved. He cared for her for a month before she too died. As the doctor pulled a sheet over her ashen face, he said it was of a broken heart. Alan knew better. His mother was bedridden and could not speak. During those long days he spoke to her of what he had been doing, of the time he had spent with his native grandfather; of his desire to live with his father's people and to worship his grandfather's god.

His mother died because he shamed her too much to live.

After burying his mother he left the town where she had been born, intending never to return to the world of her people. Using the skills Jack Lame Horse had taught him, he began once again to track the older man. It was during this time he heard of Charles Ingalls and of the incident during the late spring blizzard. The men who rode with the marshal had been in Mankato and the white man's fire water had loosened their tongues. They spoke of how his grandfather had come close to being captured and hanged. One man named Brush said he _would_ have been if not for the intervention of the man he had been watching only moments before. Another said Charles Ingalls was a clever man and that, by pretending to help the Indian, he had saved his own neck. Alan stopped pacing and stared out the window again. It had been his wish to talk to his grandfather about it and to find out if indeed there was such a thing as an 'honest' white man. Sadly, any hope of that had been dashed several days before in Sleepy Eye. A fat man in an apron standing in front of the general store said the last of the Sioux Chiefs had been captured and was awaiting trial in Mankato. They couldn't 'nail the bastard', the storekeeper said, for the deaths of the hundreds of white men he had killed, but God had found another way of making things right – they'd caught the _filthy savage_ stealing a horse and he was going to hang as soon as the circuit judge came to town.

God.

The _white_ man's God.

He hated Him almost as much as he hated white men.

Alan went to the bed and sat on its edge. Ingalls had said he would be back and that they would leave tonight. The journey to Mankato would take nearly a week. A week in which time he would come to know this white man's soul.

And decide if he would let him live.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

"Now, you're sure you and the girls are gonna be okay?"

Caroline raised a hand to shield her eyes as she looked up at Isaiah Edwards and smiled. "We'll do just fine. You go on to the mill. We'll meet you there in an hour or so."

They were standing near the school yard. Mary and Laura had asked if they could take Carrie and go swing while she conducted her business with Harriet Oleson. She'd reluctantly agreed as Willie and Nellie were already there. Nellie was playing hopscotch with some of their classmates and Willie was shooting marbles. She'd given both girls a stern dressing down before she sent them on their way. Caroline let go a little sigh. She'd wanted to threaten them with everything from no more trips into town to never setting foot in a berry patch again to make them behave but had, in the end, simply appealed to their better natures and made them promise not to get into a fight.

Unfortunately, she wasn't sure the Oleson children _had_ a better nature.

Isaiah was munching on an apple. His mouth half-full, he said without preamble, "I sure hope Charles knows what he's doin', goin' off with that there half-grown savage on his own."

She did too – and she didn't really need anybody reminding her that she did. "I'm sure he does," she said, her tone more curt than intended.

The munching stopped. "Eh, sorry there, Caroline. Guess I didn't think – "

"No, I guess you didn't."

She frowned. Now she was being plain rude.

"I'm sorry, Isaiah," she said with a sigh. "It's just I'm worried about the same thing –"

"Now, now..." He moved forward to awkwardly tap her on the shoulder. "Now don't you go frettin' none. I was just joshin', you know, bein' hard on Charles 'cause I like him so. He'll be just fine. After all, that boy cain't be more than sixteen at most. Charles is twice his age and half-again his size." He took another bite and munched thoughtfully. "The boy's awful scrawny. You know? Puny, I mean."

Scrawny, yes. Puny? No, he wasn't. She'd seen the muscles rippling along the boy's exposed arms and chest, and listened while Charles told Doc Baker of the way the boy had taken on and nearly taken down the giant that was Jim Rhodes. Isaiah was just humoring her. He knew as well as she did that by Alan's age, in his own tribe, he would be considered a man and a warrior.

But then, he hadn't been living with his tribe. From what Charles could glean, the boy had been raised as a white.

But he seemed to _hate_ whites.

Caroline sighed again and then smiled. Since she'd married Charles, it had become a habit.

"Somethin' funny?"

She shook her head as her eyes returned to the girls. They'd reached the swing. Carrie was on it and they were taking turns pushing. Nellie was still hopping and Willie was whooping with a win.

Seemed like a good time to go inside.

"If you'll excuse me, Isaiah. I need to drop off the eggs."

His eyes went over her head to the mercantile. "You sure you don't want me to...saunter...in with you on my arm," he asked with a wink, "just to keep that old battleaxe's tongue from waggin'?"

"Saunter?" Caroline grinned. She made a mock curtsey. "Why, I thank you, milord, but that is quite unnecessary. I carry my own sharp sword."

Isaiah's eyebrows popped and he snorted as he tipped his hat. "I guess you do at that. Well, I'll be over at Hanson's. You just whistle if you find out your need a cudgel!"

The blonde woman stood a moment staring after him, remembering how much she had disliked 'Mister Edwards' when Charles had first brought him to their home in Kansas to help with the construction. He had seemed an uncouth, uncivilized, brash and disorderly individual and she had quickly judged him as such.

To her everlasting disgrace.

In the end, no one had proved truer to them and she thanked God every day that the irascible mountain man was in their lives – even if he had tried to teach Laura to spit.

With a smile on her face, Caroline turned toward the mercantile. Twenty steps brought her to the door. As she entered the store, she could hear Harriet and two of the women from the church speaking in hushed tones.

' _Poor woman_ ,' she heard. And, ' _such a disgrace'_.

The conversation stopped when she stepped into the room.

Harriet, as usual, looked like a child caught with her fingers in the candy jar. Fluttering like a startled Blue jay in her blue and white checked dress, she rounded the counter and came toward her.

"Why, Caroline! I wasn't expecting you today. After all, you just brought in eggs on Saturday."

"It was the day before," she corrected. "And they're laying fine this year."

"Well, yes," the black-haired woman replied as she smoothed the front of her dress in a nervous habit. "Lenora was just asking about a fresh dozen, weren't you, Lenora?" she asked one of the stunned women standing by the counter.

Lenora nodded dutifully.

"Here, I'll just take the whole basket and pay you, and you can be on your way."

Caroline let her take the basket before saying, "Oh, I'm in no hurry. I thought I would look at some fabric. The girls are in need of new pinafores."

As she turned away she saw Harriet scowl and roll her eyes toward the door.

Before Lenora and her companion could escape, the blonde woman turned so she leaned against the dry goods table and asked, "I heard you two talking when I came in. I was wondering what about?"

Lenora Adams was a widow. The woman with her was her companion, Bessie Smith. Bessie had no husband or children of her own either and so the pair of them had nothing better to do but get into everybody else's business.

The good Lord told man to propagate for a good reason!

Bessie's lips were drawn tight and curled up at the ends like a little bow. "Why, were just discussing the ...weather, weren't we, Lennie?"

"Yes, and how _fine_ it is!" the older woman exclaimed.

Caroline nodded. "I see." This was the point where Charles would tell her to back away.

But Charles wasn't here.

"And just what about the weather exactly is a ' _disgrace_ '?" she queried. "And the ' _poor woman'_ you were talking about, that was Mother Nature, I presume?"

If she hadn't been so angry, she would have burst out laughing. All three of the nosey Nellies were frozen in place in their finery with their chins doubled and their eyes popping. They looked for all the world like three wild birds caught in Charles' sights.

Caroline blinked several times and, using her best schoolmarm voice, said, "Well? I'm waiting."

It was Harriet who thawed first.

"Well, I never!" Her hands went to her ample hips. "And just _what_ are you accusing these fine upstanding women of?"

"I am accusing these fine upstanding _church-going_ women of being what the Good Book warns against – gossips!" she snapped back, her temper rising.

"And maybe someone here has a guilty conscience, hmm?" Harriet countered, her arms wrapped around her middle and the toe of her expensive white patent leather boot tapping. " _Maybe_ someone here knows the truth and just can't face it!"

She was getting in deep. If she was going to back down, she had better do it now. She'd often told the girls that sticks and stones might break their bones, but words could never hurt them.

It was a lie, of course. Once something was said, it couldn't be taken back.

Maybe she should have had Isaiah come along with that cudgel after all.

Caroline's eyes shot from one hostile face to the next. _If_ she backed down, they'd go around town continuing to spread their lies and telling everyone they were true. If she _didn't_ back down, she'd have to hear those lies and live with the consequences.

Well, the Bible said _, 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'_

Steeling herself, she answered quietly, "And just what _exactly_ is it that you are insinuating, Harriet?"

Bessie shook her head and sighed. "Maybe she really _doesn't_ know, poor dear," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm disguised as pity.

"Well, men, after all, will be men," Leonora agreed. "Not all couples have the same open and _honest_ relationship the late Mister Adams and I had. I'm sure Mister Ingalls' previous 'dalliances' are not the topic of suppertime conversation."

The younger woman nodded. "And with a savage no less," she clucked.

Harriet's dark eyes sparked with a predatory gleam. "Face it, my dear. The whole town knows. After all, why _else_ would that savage child have come looking for _your_ husband personally?" The black-haired woman drew closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Of course we know it's not your fault, Caroline. After all, a woman has no control over what her man does before they marry. I mean...sixteen years ago..." She paused and then looked straight after. "You would have been courting then? Isn't that right?"

At that moment she knew she'd been wrong. It wasn't Charles Laura got her temper from.

It was her!

"Harriet Oleson," Caroline drew a deep, steadying breath before going on, "I would suggest you put that counter between you and me before I have time to reach you and wipe that smug look off of your face!"

Bessie's eyes widened. Lenora gasped.

"The woman's always the last one to know," the older woman stated simply.

"And you two!" The blonde woman rounded on them. "If I wasn't a Christian woman I'd take you by the throat and shake some sense into – "

"Ma?"

One word. It was one word and it deflated her anger just as surely as if a pin had been inserted into a balloon.

Wincing, Caroline turned to find her three girls standing hand in hand in the doorway to the mercantile. Their hair was perfect, their pinafores untarnished, their knees unskinned. There were no bloody noses or bruises on chins.

Unlike her, they had _not_ gotten into a fight.

"Is everything okay, Ma?" Mary asked, concerned.

She closed her eyes as she nodded. "Yes."

Behind her she heard Harriet Oleson stir. The black-haired woman walked quickly behind the counter with the egg basket. Drawing out her coin purse, she loudly counted out the least she could pay for the eggs and then held it out to her. Without a word, Caroline took the money and then went to join her girls. As they stepped out of the store, she felt three pairs of eyes following her.

"Well, I never!" she heard Harriet Oleson exclaim.

"Truth will out," Lenora Adams sniped. "All it takes is one look at that boy's hair."

"Poor woman," Bessie Smith sighed. "What a disgrace."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Laura looked at her ma where she sat beside Mister Edwards in the wagon; her sun bonnet pulled down to shield her eyes and her honey-colored hair blowin' in the breeze. They'd left the Oleson's store and gone straight to the mill where they met the mountain man and, after her ma and Mister Hanson talked for a few minutes while Mister Edwards finished loading the wagon, headed home. Ma'd hardly said three words since they'd left town. She'd blushed right up to her ears when the three of them had stepped through the door of the mercantile and it was mighty puzzlin' why, though she thought it might of been on occasion that ma looked like she was ready to go a round with that old Mrs. Oleson. Laura smiled as an image appeared in her mind of her mother climbin' into a ring wearin' boxing gloves and ready to take on that old blabbermouth for somethin' she'd said. Grown-ups were funny. They got just as mad as kids, but they pretended like they didn't – like gettin' mad was somethin' bad. Pa'd told her the Bible said it was just fine to get mad. In fact, it warned that it was a bad thing if you didn't. But, Pa said, you had to be mad about somethin' important, and somethin' you weren't gonna profit from.

Pa'd been right mad when he'd left the house that evening.

When Mister Edwards arrived, Pa'd taken him out to the barn to show him everything that would need doin' until he got back. When they was done, they both came into the house and had a cup of coffee together and then Pa packed up his belongings so he was ready for the trip he was takin' with the Indian boy. He left them in the house and went out to let Alan know it was almost time and that he should get ready. It wasn't long before they heard shoutin' and when Pa came back in the house he was stormin' like a nor'easter. He didn't say much while they were in earshot, but after puttin' Carrie to bed and then climbin' up into the loft to tuck them in and say 'goodbye', he went back downstairs and she heard the three of them – Ma, Pa, and Mister Edwards – talkin' in low tones so's they couldn't hear. Mary fell asleep right away, but she couldn't, so she'd tiptoed to the edge of the loft and laid there just out of sight, listening. In the end it seemed it hadn't been the Indian boy who'd made him so mad, though Pa said Alan was about the most stubborn thing he' ever laid eyes on. One of their neighbors had been ridin' past and had confirmed Mrs. Oleson was spreadin' rumors around town. Ma talked him out of goin' in to see her and said Mrs. Oleson would get her 'comeuppance' on judgment day if not sooner. Now, she wasn't dumb, but she sure couldn't figure out what those rumors were about. Still, she was sure they had to with what Pa had talked to her about before – about whatever he'd _had_ before Ma – when he made her promise she wouldn't pop Nellie in the nose. And then Ma had gone and darn near popped _Nellie's_ ma!

Grownups _sure_ were confusing.

"What do you suppose it's all about?" Mary asked, her voice hushed. Carrie was asleep in her lap and she must have thought it was okay for them to talk. They were riding at the back of the wagon, so if they talked real soft neither Mister Edwards or their ma would hear.

Laura shrugged. "Somethin' to do with Pa and that Indian boy, I guess."

Mary glanced at her mother. "You know what Ma always says?"

Yes, she knew. But what one of the hundred thousand things Ma said was her sister referring to?

"What?"

Mary scowled. "People only get mad at rumors when there's some truth to them."

Ma _had_ said that. Lots of times. Usually followed by, _'So those who know the truth should just ignore them and keep their tempers.'_

Laura was silent a moment. "You think Pa knew Alan before somehow?"

Mary shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."

Her eyes went to the her Ma. She was talking to Mister Edwards and paying no attention to them. "You think Ma'd let us walk to town tomorrow?"

"Why would she?" her sister asked.

"I don't know." She thought a moment. "Yes, I do! Didn't the Reverend Alden ask you if you could sew up that tear in his black coat before Sunday?"

"Ah, he was just being nice. He's got plenty of ladies to sew up his clothes."

"But he asked _you_." Laura's eyes returned to her mother's back. "Ma will let us go for that. After all, we didn't get into any fights today. And then I can talk to Nellie –"

"Laura, don't."

"Don't what?"

Mary had that funny look on her face, the one where she was trying hard to be all grown up. "You know what Pa said. Talking to Nellie isn't going to do anything but cause trouble. Whatever it is, it's not important."

Laura studied her sister. Mary was a real bad liar. Maybe it was because she was just about as perfect a little girl as God had ever created and He'd just plain forgot to tell her how to do it. Those big clear blue eyes of hers would narrow and her brow furrow; her jaw grew tight and just about every time, tears misted in her eyes, like lyin' brought about as much pain as a toothache.

"What aren't you tellin' me?" Laura asked, genuinely afraid.

Mary's head shook. "Nothing. Stop bein silly."

"What are you two whispering about back there?" their mother asked sternly.

Laura turned to find her looking at them. "Nothing, Ma'am. I was just reminding Mary that Reverend Alden asked if she could come to town and mend his coat for him sometime before Sunday."

Their mother's lips grew tight.

"Well, can we, Ma?" she asked, pouring every bit of innocence into the question she could.

"We'll see," the older woman said, and then turned back to face the road.

'Well, see.' More often than not, that meant 'yes'.

Laura pulled a face on her sister and then sat back against the side of the wagon.

They _sure_ would see.

Tomorrow, she'd find Nellie and see just _what_ that old battleaxe of a mother she had knew.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Once back at the house, Caroline ordered the girls to do their chores and then threw herself into hers. All the time she was scrubbing the clothes, she thought about rubbing Harriet Oleson's interfering nose against the board. As she wrung them out, she thought about doing the same thing to the woman's turkey-wattle neck, and when she whacked the rug with the beater, she did it with relish, imagining the carpet to be the black-haired woman's broad rear end.

Finally, totally and completely spent, she sat down on the stump she usually shared with Charles' after supper and burst into tears. She sat there for some time, sobbing and berating herself _for_ sobbing, before she heard the scuff of boots on dirt behind her. Hurriedly, she ran a hand over her face to clear it of tears and turned with a smile on her face, as if its brilliance could hide her red-rimmed eyes and dripping nose. She'd been afraid it was one of the children. It wasn't.

It was a rather embarrassed and somewhat distressed Isaiah Edwards.

He was supposed to be in the fields. She hadn't expected him until dark.

"Isaiah," she said, forcing a bright tone. "Do you need something?"

"I just came back for some tools," he mumbled as he walked past. "I'll just be goin' to get them."

Caroline's shoulders slumped with relief. He wasn't going to say anything. He was probably as uncomfortable as she was. He –

"Caroline?"

Oh dear.

"Yes?"

"Well, you know me," he started, rambling a bit, "I ain't used to bein' around no family and especially no womenfolk, and I know I can be dumb as an ass walkin' backwards, but seems to me somethin's got you upset."

She sniffed again. What gave it away, she wondered? The sobbing or the fact that her white blouse was soaked clean through?

"No, I'm fine. Just fine."

"I said 'dumb as an ass', not blind as a bat, Caroline," the mountain man said, his tone growing serious. "Now, you see, I'm here to look after you and the girls. And while I ain't the softest of men, I just plain cain't _stand_ to see a woman cry."

"This?" she asked, indicating her face. "Oh, I'm just tired, that's all. There's so much to do with Charles gone. I'm worried about him too –"

"You're also lyin'." He met her gaze. "And though I ain't well acquainted with the Good Book, seems to me I heard that's what's called a sin." When she said nothing, he went on, "Now I ain't denyin' you're worried about your man, and I ain't sayin' you ain't got a right to be. What Charles is doin is 'iffy' at best, and plain loco at worst." Isaiah reached out and touched one of the tears trailing down her cheek and then pulled back as if he had committed a crime. "This got to do with what that old nag said to you in town today?"

"Harriet? Why would you think –"

The mountain man's dark eyes rolled upwards. "The Man upstairs is listenin'."

She sat there a minute, at war with herself, and then leapt off the stump as if it had suddenly been overrun with ants.

"That woman! Harriet Oleson is the most wicked, scheming, unprincipled creature ever to walk upon God's green earth! How she can come into church on Sunday and take a seat in the pews and hold her head up is beyond me!"

Isaiah took off his hat and scratched his head. He thought to spit, but changed his mind. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't the Good Book say that church is a place for sinners?"

 _That_ stopped her.

Caroline closed her eyes as more tears flowed. "Oh, Isaiah," she sighed. "I am so sorry. Why I let that woman get under my skin, I'll never know."

He nodded and then eyed her a minute. "You doubtin' Charles?"

She started to answer and then halted.

 _Was_ she?

Charles had been a bit wild when she met him – defiant and confrontational as Laura sometimes was. Did she consider it a possibility that he might have been involved with a native woman before he knew her? Charles' faith was sound as hers, but she had no illusions about the fact that he was a man and as such might not have adhered to the Bible's strictures as she had _before_ marriage. The Big Woods had their fair share of Indians back then, though they had for the most part remained to themselves. Still, it was ridiculous.

Really.

So why did Harriet bringing up the possibility bother her _so_ much?

"Caroline?"

Isaiah was watching her. She hung her head ashamed.

A second later she felt his large rugged hand on her shoulder. "Now, don't you go frettin'. Charles ain't got nothin' to do with that boy other than that he's Jack Lame Horse's grandson and in need. You know that husband of yours, ain't a man would go farther or climb higher to meet an obligation than him. He feels, well, obliged, you know, since that old chief saved his life."

Yes, she knew and, the truth be told, Charles would have gone with the boy to help him whether Jack Lame Horse had saved his life or not.

That was just Charles.

"Here."

Caroline looked up to find a soiled hankie dangling in front of her face. On it was the record of Isaiah's day, from eating lunch to sweating at the plow.

"Thank you," she said as she politely took it, dabbed at her cheek while doing her best to keep it away from her nose, and then twisted it in-between her fingers.

"You okay now?" he asked.

She almost laughed at his tone. It was hesitant as a boy looking at a bath.

With a smile, she said, "Yes, I'm fine. Really."

"Well, okay then," he replied, almost dancing a jig. "I'll just go get that rake I came in for."

She glanced at the sky. The day was moving on. It was time to begin preparing the midday meal. As a matter of fact, she could see the girls heading in from their chores to do just that. They were nearly in the yard.

"Don't go too far," she said as she rose, halting him in his tracks.

"Why ever not?"

Caroline grinned. "It's almost time for dinner. Give us about an hour and a half and then come on in and wash up."

He tipped his hat. "Wouldn't miss it for all the tea in China."

"You don't like tea," she laughed – unless it was liberally laced with whiskey.

"Well, now, Ma'am, I cain't rightly argue there."

Stepping up to him, Caroline took the mountain man by the arm and then raised up on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Now what was that for?" Isaiah asked, blushing like a school girl.

Caroline smiled. "For being a friend like no other. God has surely blessed us with you."

"You gettin' sweet on Mister Edwards, Ma?" she heard her middle daughter ask with a giggle.

Pivoting, she looked right at her. "Maybe. After all, he's here and your father's not."

Laura sputtered. "But...but...Ma!"

Mister Edwards had Laura in his arms a second later and was swinging the little girl around. "Now, you know, Half-pint, there ain't no room in this big old grizzly bear's heart for anyone but you!"

Realizing she'd been had, Laura started to laugh. "I knew that! Ma wouldn't kiss you anyhow. You got too many whiskers!"

"That's right!" he declared and then rubbed them against her child's cheeks as he carried her into the house.

A second later she felt Mary's hand slip into hers. Looking down, she saw something hidden in her child's eyes and then it was gone as if it had never been.

"Mary?"

"Is everything okay, Ma?" she asked.

Caroline looked in the direction Charles had gone. She knew in her heart now that she trusted him no mater what.

"Yes, darling," she said, as she planted a kiss on Mary's golden hair, "everything is just fine."


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

As he crouched beside the fire he'd kindled an hour or so before, Charles gazed at his traveling companion. The boy had just returned from checkin' on the horses. He was edgy at best and downright nervous if the truth be told. Alan kept a constant vigil at the perimeter of the camp and Charles wasn't sure if he had slept at all since they'd stopped. They had traveled through the night. Fortunately, the moon was waxin' full and it had lit their way, almost as if it had been a rainy day. As the dawn broke they stopped to sleep. _He'd_ fallen where he stood. After all, he'd put in a full day at the farm before travelin' the six or so hours east toward Mankato, and partin' from his children and wife had been hard. When he woke it was to find the boy sittin' on the opposite side of the fire, sharpening his knife and watching him.

The picture did little to put his mind at ease.

The curly-haired man wondered once again just _what_ he had gotten himself into. Though gettin' words out of Alan was just about as hard as pullin' hen's teeth, he'd managed to piece together his story, or at least the story he was tellin'. Seems the boy had met his grandfather when he'd been a teener, and they'd met on and off for four or five years without his mother or her parents knowin' about it. Then, one day, Lame Horse had simply disappeared. He had a notion that it was just bout that time that U.S. Marshal Jim Anders had made mission of finding the Sioux chief and makin' him pay for the death of the settlers who had died in the Dakota war. Jack Lame Horse had been forced to go into hidin' and that had taken away from the boy the one thing he just couldn't live without.

After that, Alan had traveled lookin' for Lame Horse and someone along the way had mentioned his name. Charles imagined it was one of the men who had been ridin' with Anders when the blizzard struck. Wouldn't be much of anyone else would know anythin' about it. Anders had probably told them the whole tale when he'd joined back up with them and then, when they were in their cups, they'd told the whole world. Apparently, it was well-known that Charles Ingalls was a fool who had near got himself killed stumblin' out blind into a blizzard and that it was an Indian who saved him. Now, most men couldn't comprehend that, so they had to put their own stamp on it. The boy hadn't said much, but he got the distinct impression that Alan didn't believe him when he said he'd had nothin' to do with that U.S. marshal bein' there, waitin' in the cabin when he arrived with Lame Horse. 'Course, Charles mused as he sat back, nursin' a cup of coffee an lettin' it warm his fingers, that was nothin' new. So far as he could tell, Alan didn't believe anything a white man said.

In his own way, the boy was as much a bigot as Jim Rhodes. Charles snorted as he took a sip.

Not that he'd be tellin' Alan that any time soon.

"You find something amusing, white man?"

White man.

He was gettin' _awful_ tired of that.

"I've got a name," Charles said before taking another sip. When he'd finished, he added, "Until you use it, you can forget gettin' any answers."

Alan's mouth was a rigid line; his jaw tight. His piercing eyes locked on him. They'd startled him, those eyes, the first time he'd noticed how pale they were. They were unusual for an Indian; a mix of green, brown, and gold. Some might have called the color 'hazel'. To him, it looked more like tarnished brass.

Their color gave the boy a feral, hungry look.

"So," Alan repeated. "You find something amusing _, Ingalls?_ "

It was a beginning.

He was sitting with his back braced against a fallen log. Truth to tell, not only did it make his back feel better, but it made _him_ feel better to have somethin' between it and the possibility of the boy's knife. Charles shifted, easing a place where the bark bit into his flesh.

"Not amusin', no. Ironic."

He liked that word. His school teacher wife liked it too. She usually used it when it came to him gettin' on his high-horse about somethin'.

"You hate white men, don't you?" he asked.

The boy's brows drew down into a dark 'V' as though he sniffed a trap. "Yes," he said at last.

"Why?"

Alan scowled. "You are not to be trusted."

Charles mobile eyebrows danced. " _All_ of us? Every _one?"_

He nodded.

"So how many do you figure that is, I mean, countin' all the states back east? Twenty-five, thirty million, maybe?" Charles took another sip, relishing the warmth as it coursed through him. On a chilly late spring mornin' there was nothing like coffee to satisfy. "Seems to me you're right arrogant judgin' all of us to be of one kind."

The boy remained silent for another. "I have never met a white I could trust."

"Oh," Charles said as he sat the cup on the ground beside him, "now you're talkin' from experience. I can respect that. Though, truth to tell, even experience can lead you up the wrong side of the tree. How many white men have you met in your life?"

"Why should _you_ care?" Alan snapped back.

Well, at least he had him talkin'. "Because I _am_ one."

"I suppose you will tell me all white men are good! That I have just _misunderstood_ them," he snorted.

Charles chuckled. "The Good Book says not to lie," he answered. "There are good men, but son, sometimes you have to work your way through an awful lot of bad ones to find them."

Anger flared in the boy's eyes. "I am _not_ your son!"

He held up a hand. "Sorry. Alan, sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"White men never mean what they say!" Alan growled as he leapt to his feet. "They open one hand and speak of friendship, while in the other they hold a loaded gun! With honeyed words they speak of 'love', saying they offer it freely, but then they put a price on it – a price..." He was breathing hard. "A price a man _cannot_ pay."

"What did your family demand of you, Alan, for them to love you?"

Charles words weren't meant to inflame him, but they might as well have been a match struck to a keg of dynamite.

" _You_ will not ask me such questions! I owe you nothing, _white man!_ I do not owe you a _name_. I do not owe you _answers_. _You_ owe me!"

Charles rose to his feet as well. "How do I owe you?"

"I stand here for Jack Lame Horse," the boy said as he drew himself up to his tallest, which was just under his own height. Alan's lean form was rigid, his fists clenched; his eyes shootin' fire. "Jack Lame Horse saved your life. _You owe him your own."_

He waited a moment and then he nodded. "Yes, I do."

Alan blinked. "You would not do this."

"What?" Charles challenged. " _Die_ for you?" He pursed his lips. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but the boy was right – he owed his grandfather a life. "God willing, it won't come to that, Alan, but if it does, the answer is 'yes'."

"You lie, white man," the young man scoffed.

He remained silent for a moment and then asked his own question. "And what would _you_ do if I did? How would you survive, how would you _live_ without hate?" He shook his head. "You've lived with it so long it must be like breathin'."

Alan beat his breast. "Hate makes me strong!"

"Hate makes you wrong."

Something flitted through the boy's odd eyes, Charles might have called it 'remorse' if he hadn't known better. There was nothing of regret or repentance in the boy. Every fiber of his being was trained on one target – finding somethin' to take away his pain.

"You are a fool!" Alan spit at last as he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I will listen no more. I go to the water now as my grandfather taught me to seek the Creator's guidance. You will break the camp. I will get the horses when I return and we will leave."

Charles watched him go for a moment and then called softly after him, "Tell the Creator 'hello' for me."

Alan pivoted sharply. "What do you know of the Creator?"

He had a sense the boy had somethin' against the God of the Bible. Maybe datin' back to his childhood. In Alan's young mind, the god of the Sioux was not the God of white men.

"I thought maybe since I was helpin' you, well, you know, maybe He'd look favorably on me," he said with a shrug. "Might help you get to Mankato in one piece."

That was another thing he had sensed – that Alan was not bein' up front with him about everything. That maybe – just maybe – the boy had done somethin' somewhere along the line and someone was trackin' him. It would explain him lookin' over his shoulder all the time. Maybe he'd been less than discreet about his inquiries in the town. Perhaps someone had threatened him if he returned to Mankato.

"I do not need your help, white man," Alan growled and then disappeared over the edge of the ridge.

Charles stared after him for some time before he turned back and began to break camp as ordered.

Alan might not need his help, but he was afraid – before the end of their time together – they both might just need God's.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A half an hour later Alan left the cleansing waters of the small stream that ran through the land they traveled. As he climbed the bank, the clear liquid trailed from his curly black hair onto his skin, carrying away any trace of sweat and dirt.

Would that it was so easy to cleanse his mind.

The white man, Ingalls, confused and angered him. He knew he was a snake in the grass, waiting to strike. His white grandmother had been kind as well in the beginning, but her soft smile masked a heart hard as stone. So long as he did what she wanted – as he was told – she had praised and flattered him. But when he grew old enough to question her and the words from the black leather book she held, she'd turned like a cub thought tamed to strike, drawing blood. He had seen such a thing once, at a circus his father had taken him too. They had watched as a lion turned on the man who whipped it, mauling him.

' _Remember, my son,'_ his father had whispered close to his ear, _"it is sometimes wise to bite the hand that feeds you.'_

Son.

The word had brought such anger when the white man spoke it, and yet Alan longed so to hear it again. Where _was_ his father? Dead, or only dead to him? Did his corpse rot in an unmarked grave or did he wander the earth still, choosing to remain away from him? Either way, the loss of his father's presence was a hole in his heart that, for a short time, his red grandfather had filled. Now, with the older man imprisoned and bound to die, it had opened again and the vortex raging within it threatened to pull him in and down.

Down so far, the only way he could climb out would be to do it inch by bloody inch.

Frustrated, exhausted, exasperated and unsure of what course to pursue, Alan threw his lanky form onto the grass and closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to be in any way dependent on a white man. Yet, the Creator had sent this challenge and so he must be up to it. He did not know yet just what the challenge was, but he suspected all would be as he believed and the white man would betray him somewhere along the way. When that happened, he would have to make a choice. The white man's word would carry much weight in the white man's court, but his lies would carry even _more_ weight, condemning his grandfather and, perhaps, him as well.

Three lives hung on what kind of a man Charles Ingalls was.

Rising from the grass, Alan turned back toward the camp he had left behind. There were many hours of travel left. He did not have to come to a decision now.

He would leave it to the Creator and time.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The boy appeared on the crest of the hill just as Charles decided to go looking for him. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust Alan. No, that wasn't true – he was entirely sure he _couldn't._ At least not yet. He had to earn the boy's trust, had to prove to Jack Lame Horse's grandson a truth his grandfather seemed to have known in spite of all the bad treatment he'd had – that no two men, white or red, were alike. You had to take them on merit at first and then wait until they proved themselves good or bad. Didn't matter the color of their eyes, their hair, or the color of their skin.

All that mattered was what was in their hearts.

The boy's curly black hair was dripping wet, which made it lay on his shoulders in a spiraling wave. Alan would grow to be a handsome man if he had the chance – if his hate didn't lead him to an early grave or the hangman's noose. Charles' hand went to his throat at the thought of it. He could see Jack Lame Horse sittin' there against the wall of the cabin near the hearth, his back straight as a ramrod; his head held high. He'd stand facin' the gallows just the same way. Not bowed. Never bent.

Charles' gaze returned to Lame Horse's grandson. The boy's features were much more refined than his grandfather. He probably took after his mother, though Charles was sure suggestin' that would earn him a knife blade in the side. It was clear the boy both loved and loathed his white mother who, most likely, was a weak women who had done her best to deal with a near impossible situation.

The world would not be kind to her for the choice she had made.

He wondered if Alan had ever thought about that – what might drive a white woman to marry an Indian and face what was sure to come. He doubted that he had. But then he was young – _so_ young. Charles looked into his face as the boy drew near.

And so _very_ old.

"Chilly mornin' to take a dip," he said conversationally.

"White men stink. Red men do not," Alan replied.

Charles nodded. "Well, there's some truth to that – dependin' on the white man and what he's doin'. Take muckin' out a stall. Leave's a man with a healthy scent."

"White men cage their animals. The Indian lets them run free." Alan paused. "At least that is the way it was before the white man sailed here to take the land away and portion it off, fencing it in and claiming it for their own Now there is no place left for them to roam."

He had to say it, even though he knew what was coming – or he thought he did.

"Alan, you have to face it, you are as much a white man as a red one."

It was as if he had struck him. The boy reared back, and then roared like a wounded animal as he came for him. Before Charles knew it, he was on the ground and Alan was on top of him. The boy gripped the collar of his shirt with one hand while the other held the knife he had painstakingly sharpened earlier that day against his throat.

"You will not say that _ever_ again!" he demanded.

Charles swallowed against the hard steel. He remained calm.

He wasn't sure how, but he did.

"It's the truth," he said.

"There is nothing of the white man in me!" he spat. "My blood is red!"

"So is mine," Charles countered quietly. "Just use that knife and you'll see."

The knife blade remained perilously close to his jugular for several heartbeats before it was lifted. Alan snorted as he rose and stepped back. "You seek to trick me," he said.

Charles was sitting up, rubbing his throat. An idle thought flashed in his mind – Caroline, chastising him for growin' careless.

Scolding him for gettin' killed.

"No tricks," he said as he rose shakily to his feet. "Alan, you can go ahead hatin' every white man you meet if you want to, but if you do, then you have to realize that means you hate a part of yourself too. And if you hate yourself, there ain't nothin' gonna make things right – we'll get to Mankato and your grandfather will be freed and you'll go on hatin' and hurtin' until you find yourself at the end of that noose instead of him. Is that what you want?" He swallowed and rubbed his throat again. "Is that what your father would want?"

"You know nothing of my father."

"No, _you_ know nothing of your father. Your father married a _white_ woman. He _loved_ a white woman. What would _he_ think of your hate?"

The boy was glaring again. Sometimes it seemed that was the only expression he had.

"I will discuss this no more. It is time to move on."

Charles swallowed a snort. He'd have to try that with Caroline the next time _they_ were arguin'.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As they traveled on, riding side by side on the road, the spring weather began to shift from cool to cold, so much so that both he and Alan were forced to stop and take their heavy coats from their packs. Charles kept an eye to the sky as it darkened and the wind increased, thinking of the uncharacteristically late snowstorm that had brought Jack Lame Horse into his life. It had been just one year ago to the month that he and Caroline and the girls had been returning from a trip to Mankato when they'd run into Jim Anders. The curly-haired man didn't wish for Anders' acquaintance with frostbite, but he sure did wish he had a predictor as accurate as the lawman' frostbitten feet. It was said lightning didn't strike twice in the same place.

He was hoping the same went for snow.

Since they no longer had any fear that Jim Rhodes or the other men in Walnut Grove were trackin' them, they'd agreed to travel on the road during the day and stop when night fell. The sleep he'd gotten that morning had been erratic at best and he was tired. Of course, spendin' nearly twenty-four hours in the company of a young man who hated you didn't help that much either. It was like he was fighting a constant battle – one in which he didn't dare let down his guard. There had been a moment – brief, but it had been there – when he'd wondered if Alan _was_ going to cut his throat. He didn't think the boy would do anything outright, but if something pushed him over the edge, well, he was sure Alan had it within him to kill him.

For the boy's part, since the incident with the knife, Alan had hardly spoken a word. He'd ridden with his face turned toward the east, letting the reins fall from his fingers to lay slack against his horse's chestnut hide and guiding his horse Indian style with his knees. Charles hoped his words had made the boy think. Though the world saw Alan as Indian, the truth was what he'd said – he was as much a white man as a red one. And though that was a truth Alan didn't want to hear, it was one he _needed_ too. Maybe if the boy recognized he was tiltin' against the wind, there'd be a chance of gettin' him to listen.

Maybe, there'd be a way of freein' him from his hate.

At that moment, as if he had heard or seen something, Alan checked his horse. He held up a hand for silence and cocked his head, listening. Charles watched as an odd expression crossed his young face – the boy's brassy eyes shiftin' from one side to the other; his mouth drawin' into a thin line.

"What is –"

Charles didn't have a chance to finish the question. Alan put his heels to his mount's side and was flying toward the trees.

"Ingalls! Follow!' he shouted.

Even as he did what he was told and moved to follow, Charles heard a sharp _crack!_ It was quickly followed by a booming sound that echoed across the ground. Just as he realized what it was, he felt something whizz past his head to strike a nearby tree.

Charles swayed in the saddle, stunned.

No, not stunned. Hit.

He was _hit_.

Lifting his hand, the curly-haired man found a trail of warm blood runnin' from his forehead to his cheek. At that moment another shot resounded. It didn't kill him. It wasn't even aimed at him. Instead it was aimed at the ground in front of his horse. As the animal reared, Charles pulled on the reins to control it. His fingers slipped due to the blood that covered them.

A second later the horse shied and threw him off. He hit the ground with a thud and knew nothing more.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A few seconds later a pair of black Army-issued Jefferson boots appeared beside Charles' head. They were an old pair and their well-worn condition spoke of a career man, retired now, but still and forever on duty. Another pair of boots appeared beside them, their brown a counterpoint to the black.

They were followed by a voice.

"Who is it?" Army boots asked.

Brown boots knelt. He took Charles' silent form and flipped it over. "It's him. Ingalls."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

Brown boots rose to his feet. "I saw him at the cabin that day we found Anders. He had to be hiding Lame Horse, there's no way around it."

"Jack told you that?"

The other man nodded. "We got Jack to town and to the doctor for his feet. The Doc gave him some laudanum for the pain while he was working and it loosened his tongue. Told us the whole thing. How this man helped that Sioux savage to evade the law." Brown boots paused. "How he talked Jack into helping."

"Stupid," the soldier said. "And criminal. Anders should be in jail."

"Jack lost his badge, what more do you want?"

Army boot's pale blue eyes narrowed. He sniffed, causing his straw-yellow mustache to dance, before running a gloved hand over a chin stubbled with more of the golden stuff.

"Justice."

Brown boots indicated the form lying on the ground, wearing homespun cloth. "What do we do with him?"

"Leave him. It's the boy we want." The soldier nodded toward the trees where Jack Lame Horse's grandson had disappeared. "There's a noose waiting for him right beside his grandpa."

"He's a boy, Newell," his companion countered. "You can't hang a boy."

"He's a savage! There ain't one among them over five that's a _boy_." Captain Newell P. Wilts shook his head as he toed Charles Ingalls' unconscious form . "We're wastin' time arguing, Jefferson. That boy's slipperier than a snake and twice as mean. We need to get on it."

"What about Ingalls' horse?"

"Bring it. That way, if he's got a mind to follow, it'll be on foot." Newell snorted. "Though, from the look of him, I don't think he's gonna be doin' much travelin' today."

Now U.S. Marshall Jefferson Brush scowled. "You could have killed him."

The old soldier shrugged. "Would have saved the state the price of hanging him later."

"Do you mean to press charges?"

Newell spit tobacco juice. "Mebbe. After all, this is the _second_ savage Ingalls's aided and abetted. Depends on whether or not he tries to track us." As he said it, the soldier headed for his horse.

"What do you mean?"

Newell Wilts put his foot in the stirrup and sprung with the agility of a man half his age into the saddle before he answered.

"Maybe if he does, there won't be no need."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was dark when Charles awoke. His head felt like a mule had kicked it and maybe, just maybe it had done it after the animal had rolled over on him.

 _Everything_ hurt.

Straightening up against the tree that backed him, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. It didn't help. Not only was it near pitch-black, but he wasn't where he thought he should be. There was no sign of the house or barn. Nor of his wagon or horse. The stars were blinking above, casting a pale light over the land. He could see the road nearby, stretching off until it disappeared. He'd been traveling it, hadn't he?

And not alone.

Charles blinked and then winced as memory flooded back. He'd been on the road with Alan. There had been a noise, an unexpected one, and Jack Lame Horse's grandson had taken off full-tilt into the trees, abandonin' him. There had been another shot – yes, it _had_ been a shot – and his horse had thrown him.

On the road, not up against a tree.

Charles shifted again, stifling a moan as he did. He glanced around again, but there was nothing – no Alan, no horse, no stranger.

Nothing.

He must have crawled over to the tree while semi-conscious, that was all he could figure. Probably had the good sense God had given him to know he needed to get off the road. A graze on the head was bad enough since he was out in the wilds. Gettin' stomped on by a team of horses was another thing.

That's right. The bullet grazed him.

Charles thought about it. He couldn't feel any dried blood on his face or fresh blood tricklin' down. His hand shot up only to encounter a bandage.

Someone had to have been there!

"Hello!" he called. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

His only answer came in the form of startled bird calls and the distant sound of a cat on the hunt.

"Hello?"

When he shifted to stand, his hand encountered a water skin and something beside it wrapped in cloth. Stopping, he fumbled with it and found a stone-ground bread along with several small cakes of what the Indians called pemmican – dried meat mixed with berries.

He wondered if they were still out there, whoever it was who had helped him. Obviously, they had no intention of making themselves known.

"Thank you!" he called out to the night as if it might answer.

It didn't.

Charles stared at the food in his hand and then at the water skin. Whoever had left them obviously had his good health in mind. He didn't think he needed to fear them. After breaking one of the cakes in several pieces, he settled back against the tree and then popped one in his mouth and began to chew. It wasn't worth the effort or particularly wise to shout again, so he didn't. He'd need to conserve his strength. His horse was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Alan.

He was on his own.

And there was someone out there who wanted to kill him.


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

Caroline walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. It had been three or four hours since the girls had left for school and she was alone in the house with Carrie. The little girl was playing with her rag doll and pretending to be its ma, pointing a finger and scolding it for not doing its chores. Sometimes it took a child to hold up a mirror and show you what you sounded like. Though the blonde woman couldn't remember ever pointing a finger, she did snap at the children now and then and often regretted it. Sometimes it was just so hard. There was so much to do; so many things that _had_ to be done no matter what, and often it was left up to her to get them done. Charles was a wonderful father and husband and he helped her as much as he could but men, by nature, were out of the house more than in. Like now. It would probably be two weeks if not more before Charles returned and during that time she had to get the girls up, to school and to bed, feed them and bathe them and make sure their homework was done, all the while keeping up with the wash and the mending and the daily chores like taking the eggs into Olesons and...

Caroline stopped. What was she complaining about? She was so blessed, and yet it was _so_ easy to forget the blessings she had. Beautiful, well-mannered children. A husband who loved her as the Bible said, with the love Christ had for his bride. A man whose whole being was bent on taking care of her and his children and seeing that they had everything they could need.

Looking at Carrie again, she walked over and knelt by her child. "And what is you little one doing today?" she asked.

"Baking pies!" Carrie exclaimed.

"Oh, I see. What kind of pies?"

She thought a minute and then her eyes lit up. "Blackberry pies!"

Carrie and the other girls just loved blackberries. There were just a few left from their summer supply. "And just how big are these pies?" she asked.

The little girl thought a minute and then she held up her hands, making a three or four inch circle.

"Well, you know what, Carrie? I think we just might have enough dried blackberries left to make a pie that big. Would you like to do that?"

Carrie's head bobbed up and down and her little face lit with a beautiful smile.

She needed to make pie dough anyway. One of the neighbors had brought her a jar of mincemeat and she didn't want to let it go to waste, even though with Charles away, she and Mary were the only ones who would truly enjoy it. Laura had made it very clear that she didn't think meat belonged in a fruit pie.

Picking her little girl up, Caroline moved with her to the kitchen table. Placing her in her chair, she'd just turned to gather up the ingredients when a knock came at the door. Not knowing who it was, she put Carrie back on the floor before going to answer it.

She got a surprise when she opened it. The Reverend Alden was standing there. So was Laura and she had a black eye!

"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"

The Reverend was behind Laura. He looked at her over her child's head. "I was coming this way when I saw Miss Beadle walking Laura toward Doctor Baker's. I went to find out if she could use any help and ended up staying with Laura until Hiram was done. Then I volunteered to bring her home."

Laura was uncharacteristically quiet. "Well, young lady, do you have anything to say for yourself?" she asked.

The question was addressed to the top of Laura's head since she was looking down. "It's nothing, Ma. I just fell."

With her fingers, she caught the little girl's chin and lifted her head so she was looking at her. The eye was swelling shut. There was a little cut at the end of it that Doctor Baker had put patch on. It was possible she'd fallen and struck something.

Possible but _not_ probably.

"And just how did you fall and where?"

She could see the wheels turning in her middle child's head. "I tripped while we were outside playing. I hit the corner of the see-saw."

"I see. And were you alone when you fell?"

Now they came to it. Laura chewed her lip. "No."

"According to Miss Beadle, Nellie and Willie Oleson were close by, as well as Mary," the Reverend Alden said.

She might have known.

"Laura, did you get into a fight with Nellie?"

Her answer was so quiet she almost missed it. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Laura," she sighed.

Her daughter looked right at her. "But I didn't hit her!"

"So she hit you?" she asked, surprised. Nellie was devious and downright mean, but she usually had other children do her dirty work.

"No, Ma'am. I wasn't lyin'. I really did hit the see-saw. I turned and walked away from Nellie even though the things she was sayin' were just awful. I wasn't payin' no attention to Willie and he stuck out his foot and tripped me."

"So you really weren't fighting?"

Tears welled in her child's eyes. "I promised Pa, that no matter what Nellie said about him, I wouldn't, and I kept my promise."

Caroline drew a deep breath. Her eyes went to the reverend who was looking at her with sympathy. She opened her mouth to address him, but at that moment she felt a tug on her skirt. Looking down, she found it was Carrie.

"Yes, Carrie?"

"We going to make pies?" she asked, her little eyes round as her face.

There were more questions she had for Laura, but at the moment she thought it was more important to talk to the reverend.

"Laura?"

She looked wary. "Yes, Ma'am?"

"I told Carrie we'd use the last of the blackberries and make a little pie for her rag doll. The ingredients for the crust are on the table. I need two big ones for the mincemeat and I thought we would use the scraps for the little pie. Can you take her over there and get started? I'm just going to see the reverend out."

Laura's eyes lifted to the reverend's face and then she nodded. "Sure thing, Ma."

As the girls moved into the kitchen, Caroline followed their minister out the door. His buggy was outside.

"Thank you for bringing Laura home," she said as they headed toward it.

"You're most welcome," he said. "Although, as I said, I was headed to your place anyway."

"What for?" she asked, and then felt rude. "I'm sorry, I mean..."

He held up a hand. "Its quite all right." The reverend paused. "I am not going to lend dignity to the rumors that are running around town right now by repeating them, I just wanted to see if you were all right."

Caroline winced. "How can people believe such things?"

"We're all weak, unfortunate creatures, prone to hate and to other sins including lies. The Bible tells us that. "

"I know, but this... This is _deliberate_. That Harriet Oleson has had it in for Charles since we moved to Walnut Grove. Heavens knows why! And now, now she is using this...situation...to spread lies about him."

"Saying Charles is the Indian boy's father, you mean?"

"Yes!"

"And what do you think you should do about it?"

His question surprised her into silence for several heartbeats. "What do you mean?"

"What do you want to do about it?"

She shrugged. "Make her stop?"

"Christ gave us instructions for dealing with such a situation as this. They're found in Matthew 18. To paraphrase the scripture slightly, it says, ' _If your sister sins against you, go and tell her that her fault between you and her alone. If she hears you, you have gained your sister. But if she will not hear, take with you one or two more, that by the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established. And if she refuses to hear them, tell it to the church'."_ He paused. "Are you willing to follow them?"

"I've already talked to Harriet about her spreading rumors. She has no intention of stopping. Neither do Bessie Smith or Lenora Adams."

"I see." He thought a moment. "Today is Tuesday. We have a meeting of the ladies society tomorrow night. I'll go to Harriet and the others today and see what they have to say. If I don't get anywhere, well, would you be willing to address this then?"

"Reverend, I..."

"Caroline, there is more at stake here than Charles' reputation. We can't have this kind of thing happening among the parishioners. There is such a thing as the testimony of the church and it is far too important a thing to let it be sullied by gossips."

"Well, if you think it's for the best," she reluctantly agreed. It wasn't that she was afraid to face Harriet and the other woman, it was just that she knew the repercussions might be severe, especially for the girls.

He reached out and touched her arm. "I _know_ its for the best. We have to nip this in the bud. There is no room for slander in this town." As he released her and then climbed into the wagon, the reverend added, "I'll get word to you tomorrow, before the meeting."

She nodded.

"And don't worry, Caroline, the Lord will honor your trust and obedience."

Caroline waved as he drove away. She stood there a moment considering the young man who had brought this on them and wondering just where he and her husband were. And then she went inside to join her daughters.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Laura looked up as Mary walked back into the room. She'd been helping her ma with the pies and playing with Carrie and hadn't realized the time had flown so fast. Ma had just laid Carrie down for a nap and gone into the room she shared with Pa. She'd picked up a book and stuck her nose in it, hoping when Ma returned that she'd think she was studying and wouldn't try to 'talk'.

Mary sat down at the table and looked at her. "How's your eye?" she asked.

"It smarts, but that's okay."

"I saw what Willie did. He and Nellie had it planned." She paused. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to stop them."

"It's all right." Laura glanced at the hallway that led to their parent's room. Ma was in there changin' the linens. She made a fist and demonstrated what she meant as she said, "You just wait 'til Pa gets home and then I'll give that old Nellie what for!"

"How come you're waitin' 'til then?"

Laura opened her fist and placed her hand flat down on the table. "On account I made a promise to Pa that I wouldn't pop Nellie in the nose while he was gone on account of the lies she's been tellin' about him."

Mary was silent a moment . "I don't know what Nellie's thinking," she said with disgust. "Pa wouldn't have had anything to do with an Indian woman."

It was stated as a fact.

"What are you sayin', Mary? You sound like you don't like Indians."

Her sister's crystal blue eyes narrowed. She glanced toward the bedroom and then said, "I hate them. They're just a bunch of heathens."

She knew Mary didn't like Indians, but she was surprised to hear her say she hated them. The ones they'd met in Kansas had been scary at first, but Pa said they were God's creatures too. "Some of them aren't. Pa said he was pretty sure Chief Du Chene was a Cath-o-lic since he was raised by French people."

"Then why'd he give you that amulet? That's black magic, you know."

"No, it isn't!" The amulet hung now on the post of her bed. "It's just a lucky charm."

"That's what I mean. The Bible warns against charms and spells." Mary got to her feet. "It's like they're witches or something."

"Soldat du Chene was my friend! You take that back!" Laura shouted as she climbed to her feet.

Ma was in the room in a second. "What are you two arguing about?" she asked, sounding tired and kind of upset.

"Nothing," Mary said. "I stepped on Laura's toe and she got mad."

"Is that the truth?" their ma asked, looking from her to her sister and back again.

"Mary said it, so it must be," she replied sullenly.

Her mother's toe was tapping. "Mary?"

"It's nothing, Ma. Can I go upstairs and do my studying?"

It was obvious their mother wasn't satisfied, but she nodded. "Wake Carrie and take her with you. Laura and I are going to go outside and get some of the evening chores done."

"Sure thing, Ma," her sister said and, with only a little glance at her, headed into Carrie's room.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They'd been cleaning and raking and tossing hay, putting out feed and laying down straw for an hour or so when her Ma told her it was time to take a break. Outside the light was fading and the lights in the house were on. She wondered if Mary was studyin' like she said or readin' her Bible and lookin' for all the things that said that Indians were going to Hell.

"Laura, come sit by me," Ma said as she put down the pitchfork and sat on an unbroken hay bale.

Laura put her rake up and did as her mother asked. They sat there a minute, not sayin' nothin'. It was her that broke the silence.

"I miss Pa."

Her mother smiled at her as she ringed her shoulders with an arm. "I do too. It's just not the same when he's not here."

"No, Ma'am."

The older woman paused and then asked, "What did Nellie say today?"

Laura frowned. "Pa says it ain't right to carry tales."

"Your father's right, but telling me what Nellie said is not carrying a tale. Do you understand?"

She looked at her shoes. "Yes, Ma'am. Only...it ain't nice."

"Isn't."

"Yes, Ma'am. It isn't."

When she failed to go on, her mother prompted, "Laura."

"Nellie said Alan was Pa's...well," Her heels beat out a pattern against the baled hay. "...you know."'

Her mother's hand covered hers. "No, tell me."

"She said Alan is Pa's son. That Pa was with some Indian woman before he married you." She couldn't remember the big word Nellie had used – the one she'd heard in church that started with an 'for'. "That he did somethin' wrong."

The fingers that held her were trembling ever so slightly. "And what do you think?"

She let out a long sigh. "It ain't – isn't true. I know it isn't."

"Because you know your Pa."

Laura rolled her eyes. " _And_ I know Nellie. She likes bein' mean."

"She comes by it naturally," her mother mumbled.

"You mean 'cause of _Mrs._ Oleson?" When her mother nodded, she went on. "What is it you think makes the two of them so mean? I mean, Willie's bad, but mostly 'cause Nellie talks him into it, and Mister Oleson is _so_ nice."

"I'm not sure," she replied. "Jealousy, I guess."

"Nellie, jealous of me? But Ma, she's got everything!"

"Nellie has worldly goods, Laura, too many of them, and maybe that's why she doesn't know what's important." Her mother held her gaze. "We have to pity her. She's never had the opportunity to find out."

"Maybe." She sat a minute thinking and then asked, "So what are we gonna do about her tellin' lies about Pa?"

"Our friends won't believe them, and those who aren't our friends will believe them even _if_ we tell them otherwise. Isn't that right?"

 _That_ was disappointing. "I guess so, and I guess poppin' Nellie in the nose wouldn't have done any good neither."

Her mother looked very stern. "Certainly not..." Then she laughed. "But I bet it would have made you feel better."

Laura blinked. "What?"

The older woman stood up. "It would have made me feel better to pop Harriet and those other two old biddies in the nose too, but I made your Pa a promise as well."

"That you wouldn't let them get under your skin?"

"Exactly!" Her mother held out her hand. "Ready to go in now and sample some of that mince meat pie?"

Laura looked sick. "Do I gotta?"

The blonde woman grinned. "Maybe if you ask nicely Carrie's rag doll will let you have some of her blackberry tart instead."

Laura stood as well and put her hand in her Ma's.

" _Now_ you're talkin'!"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was late afternoon and, unbelievably, Caroline found she had a little time to herself. Mary had brought Laura's schoolwork home and the two of them were head-to-head at the desk in their room working on it. Carrie was taking a nap with her little rag doll who now had a giant blackberry smile. Mister Edwards had returned and gone out into the fields immediately. It would soon be time to put supper on the table, but it was ready for the most part. She'd made a stew and it was simmering. The mince meat pies were done and the bread already baked.

"Quite efficient, Mrs. Ingalls," she said softly to herself.

Her talk with Laura earlier in the day had brought home just how malicious the rumors Harriet Oleson and her friends were spreading and how wrong it was for them to do so. She glanced at her lap. Her Bible lay there, open to a passage in James.

' _If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man's religion is vain.'_

The Reverend Alden was right, she couldn't let it go, though she wasn't sure just how three of the most 'upstanding' women in the town – and ones who had donated quite a bit of money to the church – were going take to being corrected and told that their religion was 'vain' or worthless.

No, that was a lie. She did know.

They were certainly _not_ going to take it lying down!

There were times she envied men. Things seemed so simple with them. If someone offended them, they'd either talk it over and come to an understanding, or fight until one of them came out on top and then shake on it and go their separate ways. Women, on the other hand, would apologize to your face, saying they meant no harm, and then go about talking behind your back. Everything they did was hidden, their hateful words cloaked in innuendo

There were times when she was ashamed to be one.

Caroline stirred. She picked her Bible up and stared at the page it was open to, which was the beginning of the book of James. James was such a no-nonsense leader of the early church. Charles, with his deep belief in showing your fruit in deeds, identified with him. There were certainly many nuggets of wisdom within its five short chapters. Her eyes returned to one of her favorite ones, 1:17.

' _Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.'_

God was truth. There was no other way to describe Him, and those who followed in the footsteps of His son were required to walk in truth as well. When Jesus was in the temple, arguing with the Pharisees, he told them that they belonged to the Devil and were carrying out their father's desires. He said Lucifer was 'a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth', for there was no truth in him, and that when he spoke he was a liar and the father of lies.

Tomorrow night she would have to face a room full of their neighbors. A few would be on her side. They were friends who knew exactly what Harriet Oleson was. But there were more who knew and trusted Harriet, who didn't know them. They were still relatively new to the town. They didn't exactly have any enemies in Walnut Grove, but there were plenty of men who might enjoy a chance to bring Charles Ingalls down to their level by insinuating that, when young, the _Godly_ Mister Ingalls had had his way with an Indian woman and then left her alone to raise their son.

Caroline closed her eyes. A lone tear trailed down her cheek.

Charles _so_ wanted a son.

"Ma? Is everything all right?"

It was Mary. With a sniff and a swipe of her fingers, she turned toward her daughter. "Done so soon?"

"Laura's still working. She has extra since she left school early." Her eldest walked over and stood looking down at her. "How come you're crying? " Mild panic entered her child's voice. "You didn't hear something bad about Pa?"

"Oh, no, dear!" she answered, rising. "You just put that thought out of your head." Caroline frowned. "Why would you think such a thing?"

Mary looked uncomfortable. At last she said, "He's traveling with an... _Indian_."

Her frown deepened. "And just what do you mean by that?"

She looked at her toes. "Nothing."

Caroline caught the child's chin and lifted her head so she could meet her eyes. "That wasn't 'nothing'. What did you mean?"

"It's just...well... It's just they're savages and heathens and I don't understand why Pa would put his life at risk to help one! I thought the Good Book said we aren't supposed to be yoked with unbelievers, for what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?"

"We're not supposed to become _like_ unbelievers, Mary, but to remain pure. That doesn't mean you aren't supposed to reach out to them. For goodness sake, how would any unbeliever _become_ a believer if someone didn't?"

It was Mary's eye that had a tear in it now. She had paled and was shaking. "I remember those drums in Kansas, Ma. Drumming, drumming, never stopping, while those Indians decided whether or not they were gonna kill us and take our scalps." The look she gave her was one of abject terror. "What if that Injun scalps Pa?"

Caroline drew her daughter into her arms. "Don't be silly, Mary. First of all, no such thing is going to happen and, secondly, even if Alan did try to hurt you Pa, he's just a boy. Your Pa can take care of himself."

Mary was sniffin against her apron. "Are you sure, Ma? Are you _really_ sure?"

"Of course, I am," she replied with forced cheerfulness.

The Bible said, ' _And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'_ She was accusing Harriet Oleson of being a liar and here she was, doing the same thing.

Of course, she _didn't_ know for certain.

"Now, come on," the blonde woman said, moving her daughter to arms' length. "We've a few things to do before supper, and then it will be time for evening chores. We want everything in right order for when your pa comes home, don't we?"

Her daughter nodded. "Yes, Ma'am." She glanced toward the window. "I hope it's soon."

Caroline circled her with her arm. "So do I, Mary. So do I."


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

Charles was winded. He halted to take a drink of water and catch his breath. Even though the two men following Alan had chosen to do so on foot due to the rough terrain, they weren't injured like he was and were making good time. While the wound wasn't all that bad, his head throbbed and he felt sick to his stomach. A bullet striking a man like that could cause a concussion, and he wondered if he had a mild one. The sickness had also kept him from doing anything more the nibblin' at the rich pemmican his unseen rescuer had provided. He'd forced himself, since he knew he needed his strength.

As he let the water-skin fall back to his side, Charles reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around his head. There was a little seepage of blood, but nothing too plentiful. With any luck, the flow would stop soon. He needed it to heal as he needed his wits about him. He had no idea who the men were who were hunting Alan. What he _did_ know was that their presence meant trouble. One set of footprints had been made by a pair of standard issue army boots.

Alan was, of course, off the reservation. That put the boy's life at risk, along with the lives of anyone helping him. Though the law would frown on it, anyone killing an Indian or a settler who helped one would get, at most, a slap on the wrist. After all, it hadn't been all that long since the Minnesota government had paid a bounty of seventy-five dollars for a native's scalp. He'd hated to leave Caroline and the girls, but it was better this way.

This way only _he_ was in danger.

Kneeling, Charles checked for prints again, wondering about the man who filled the other boots and whether he was army or not. It was curious how men – sensible, reasonable men – could turn white to black to validate their actions. A man would sign up to fight and, in battle, kill as many Indians as he could, claimin' it was right and good since the natives were the enemy. When the Indians did the same thing, they were heathens and outlaws. After the war ended, that same man would maintain he had a right to hunt down the ones who got away. But – again – let an Indian do that and he'd hang. As he saw it the Indians had just as much right to fight for what was theirs as the settlers and army did. And they had just as much right to be left alone once it was over. Hunting them down was wrong. They were a vagabond people now, with no homeland.

That was punishment enough for any supposed crimes.

Rising to his feet, Charles adjusted the water-skin so it would remain at his side and then set off through the trees at an easy lope. His only hope was that Alan's pursuers would stop for the night to rest. If he kept going and they didn't, he might be able to pass them and find the boy before they did. Of course, Alan could be looking for _him._ He probably _was_ looking for him. He just hoped the boy hadn't drawn the wrong conclusion from what happened. He hoped Alan didn't think he had betrayed him. If he did, well, there were no two ways about it. He was in deep trouble.

While he only had one soldier to fear, Alan was an army in himself.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The sun was set. The two white men had finished eating their supper. One had gone to the stream to clean their dishes, while the other remained near the fire. Alan crouched in a patch of tall grasses and watched them. It would take nothing to kill the man who went to the water. He was alone and unsuspecting. The army man was more wary. The yellow hair sat with his rifle balanced on his knees. It would be best to be patient and wait for both men to fall asleep so he could end _both_ their lives at once.

Then he would search for Charles Ingalls and do the same.

The white man from Walnut Grove, for all his high words, had been a liar like all white men were liars. There was no other explanation. How else could the two men he had left behind in Mankato have found him so quickly? He had been careful to cover his tracks, using the tricks his grandfather taught him. Ingalls must have wired them and told them the route they would be taking. No doubt there was a reward on his head and the white farmer wanted it. Ingalls could use it to make his farm grow bigger. All white men wanted more. There were none who were satisfied with what they had. That was why they pushed farther and farther into Indian land, forcing the Indian to fight back so they could kill him or lock him away on a parcel of land that was worthless.

Alan shifted into a more comfortable position, having made the choice to stay where he was and attack the men later. It served the white men right to die without honor. They had hung many men of his tribe. There was no honor in hanging. He would hang _them_ if he could and stand and watch as their eyes bulged and their tongues thickened, as their faces darkened and their lips became blue as the sky. And he would laugh.

Then they would be as red-skinned as Jack Lame Horse.

Alan glanced at the rising moon and decided it would be an hour or two before the men settled in for the night. They were talking now in low, hushed voices. He knew they were speaking of him and of what he had done in the town. He was not proud of it, but neither did the act bring him shame. If he had it to do again, he would. He was sorry the fat man in the apron had died, but it had not been his hand that had brought about his death. He had given him warning. The man would not listen.

He would not believe an Indian.

The young man shifted again, glancing longingly in the direction he had tethered his horse. He could not approach the white man's camp mounted and so, was on foot. Stealthily, he moved through the grasses, pressing forward until he reached a spot where he would be hidden by the body of a large fallen tree and the forest of small plants that burst from its decaying skin. Settling in, Alan turned so his back was to the tree and closed his eyes. Ever alert, he let his breathing slow. He had learned long ago how to sleep with one ear tuned to trouble. Before he died, his mother's father would come to him in the night and beat him. It took no time to recognize the fall of his white grandfather's footsteps and to hear the turn of the knob on the bedroom door. The old man would rage when he found him not in his bed. He would hunt, but he did not find him. His hatred made his mind dull. The old man did not look inside the tall wooden cabinet that held his clothes. He would spend hours there, breathing hard, listening. Then as the morning light streaked the sky, he would crawl out and return to his bed with no one the wiser. The Indian boy snorted. One pleasure he had was seeing the white man's surprise when he walked out of his bedroom in the morning and came to the table to break his fast. He did nothing to discourage the man from thinking he had used sorcery. In fact, he encouraged it by leaving feathers and beads and other trinkets tucked into his grandfather's pockets or laying about his room. His mother caught him once and told him he was wicked. He was not wicked.

The man who _beat_ him was.

Soon, Alan was asleep.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As he broke through the trees Charles spotted Alan, leaning against a fallen trunk, his head lolling on his chest. The boy wasn't too far from the camp of the men who pursued him who, overcome by fatigue, had curled up in their blankets and gone to sleep.

He could hear them snoring.

The night was cold. He was shivering. Charles knew a part of that was the head wound, which left him vulnerable and less able to withstand the elements. He'd removed the bandage from around his head once the wound had stopped bleeding. When he touched it with his fingers, the gash and the skin around it were hot. He supposed falling to the ground and rubbing dirt and debris into the cut hadn't been the smartest thing to do. Whoever had helped him had cleaned it, but there was only so much you could do in the middle of the woods. If things went well, he could use water from the stream he heard singing close by to clean it again.

 _If_ things went well.

He was pretty doubtful that they would. Waking up a sleepin' Indian was a mighty risky thing to do.

Moving as stealthily as he could, Charles closed the gap between them. His main concern was that Alan would cry out in some fashion, alerting the two sleeping men to their presence. The boy was a bundle of nerves wound tight as a spring. If he _did_ blame him for the men following him – if Alan thought _he_ had betrayed his trust somehow – there was no telling what he would do.

As Edwards had laughingly told him once before, he had an awful tempting head of hair!

He was about four feet away now. Three.

Two.

Before he could make a move, Charles found himself on the ground with the edge of that dang knife-blade pressed up against his throat again. Alan's lean form was a shadow above him – a tense silhouette against the rising moon and its light that shone through a gap in the trees. The boy's other hand was pressed firmly across his mouth, stoppin' him from sayin' anything.

Practically stoppin' him from _breathing._

"You will remain silent," the boy ordered, his voice low. As he shifted and planted a knee on his chest, Alan hissed a warning. "You will remain silent or I _will_ kill you. Do you hear me, white man?"

Charles nodded his understanding as best he could.

The hand was lifted but the knife-blade was not. "I was right," the boy said, his tone laced with an unexpected note of disappointment. "You betrayed my grandfather and now you betray me."

Charles shook his head _. No._

"The Army man and Marshal Brush had no way to me. _You_ had to tell them."

Again, no.

The knife shifted. The tip was just under his chin. It nicked the tender skin there. "Yes!"

His jaw was clenched against the pain. Charles drew a quick breath and released it. Then he dared to say, "No."

The knife pressed in farther. He could feel a small trickle of blood. As a cloud shifted and the light moved to illuminate Alan's enraged face, Charles read his death sentence in the native boy's eyes. He closed his own so he could picture his children. His wife. So he could see their dear faces when the knife cut into his flesh, seeking the jugular vein.

Instead, a shot ran out. The knife nicked him and then, fell away.

Charles gasped. His hand flew to his throat as his eyes opened. Alan was laying on the ground, a hole in his left shoulder where the bullet had entered. Turning as best he could, Charles looked to see who had made the shot, but at that moment something else happened.

The butt of the rifle came down on his head and he knew no more.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The chores were done, Isaiah Edwards had come and gone, and the girls were in bed for the night. Another day was over. Another day of work. Another day filled with busyness.

Another day without Charles.

Caroline Ingalls shifted. She was sitting on the stump the two of them often occupied. She'd stoked the fire so the girls wouldn't get cold and then wrapped herself tightly in two shawls – one short and one long – and come outside. Somehow, out here, she felt closer to Charles. It must have been because she knew he was somewhere, looking up at the same stars and feeling the same chilly breeze rifle through his hair.

My, how she missed her fingers rifling through that hair.

Rising, she wandered over to the fence along the lane that led to town. She was always worried when Charles was gone for any length of time and always chided herself for her lack of trust in the Lord to keep him safe. She'd seen a lot of sickness and death in her life, both from accidents and man's greed. And while she knew God was sovereign and in control, she didn't _know_ His plan. Obviously God had led Alan to them or allowed him to find them. It wasn't like the Lord didn't know what was going on. The problem was she had no idea of _why._ Was it to teach them something, or maybe to teach the boy? Was it to allow Charles to show that there were honorable white men? Or perhaps, it was for her.

So she would face down the prejudice in their own town.

Most of the people of Walnut Grove gave lip service to the plight of the poor Indian. They said they felt sorry for them, losing their land and their homes and dying of the white man's sicknesses, but they didn't want to do anything about them. Nor did they speak up when others did them wrong. Caroline shook her head. People were funny. You couldn't stop them talking on one hand and you couldn't get them to say a word on the other.

 _She_ was going to have to speak up. She knew it. There was no way Harriet Oleson was going to admit any wrongdoing to the Reverend Alden. Harriet would smile and sputter and alibi and prevaricate, but she'd _never_ own up to the scandalous rumors she was spreading about Charles.

Caroline's lips curled at the ends and she stifled a laugh.

It was a good thing for Harriet that Charles _was_ away from home!

"Ma?"

The blonde woman turned with surprise to find Laura heading for her. Her child was wearing her nightgown, but had had the presence of mind to pull her warm coat on before leaving the house.

"You should be in bed!" she exclaimed. "Laura! What are you doing outside?"

The little girl looked chagrined. "I couldn't sleep. I came down to find you and you weren't anywhere." Her daughter paused. "I got scared, Ma."

Caroline opened her arms and Laura fell into them. "Hush," she cooed as she stroked her hair. "Hush, it's all right. I understand."

"Ma," her child said as she clung to her. "When is Pa comin' home?"

Laura's voice was small, hushed.

Frightened.

"Soon," she said, though she really had no idea how long it would be. "Your pa can't stay away from his girls for long."

"What if..." Laura started to say something, but seemed to think better of it. "I hope you're right."

Caroline knelt so she was eye to eye with her. "What were you about to say? Laura, tell me."

The little girl's tears glistened in the moonlight. "Mary's been crying in bed. She ain't awake. She's dreamin'." Laura's jaw tightened and she gnawed her lip.

"Yes?"

"She was shoutin' somethin' about Alan hurting Pa."

The older woman drew in a quick breath. She had that fear as well. Had she conveyed it to her oldest child unknowingly or did this come from Mary's own bigotry?

She smoothed Laura's unruly hair back. "I'm sure your pa is fine. Alan's just a boy. Your pa's a strong man. There's nothing to worry about."

"But Ma, Alan's an _Indian_."

Caroline rose to her feet. "What difference does that make?"

Laura looked uneasy. "Well, Mister Edwards said..."

Good grief! Not Isaiah too!

" _What_ did Mister Edwards say?"

"He said Indian boys are warriors when they're twelve or so. They know how to fight and how to..." Laura swallowed hard. "How to kill a man, Ma."

Caroline sighed. She'd have to give Isaiah Edwards a good talking to!

"Just because someone knows _how_ to kill, Laura, doesn't mean they will. Your pa carries a gun. He would never use it to harm anyone unless he had to. I'm sure Alan is the same."

"Are you, Ma? Are you _sure?"_

Her little girl's face was _so_ earnest. And eager. There were words she wanted to hear and she gave them to her.

"Yes, I'm sure. _Very_ sure. Alan needs your pa. Pa is going to speak for his grandfather. Why would he want to hurt him?"

Laura thought about it a moment. Then she shrugged. "I guess it don't make sense."

"Doesn't," she corrected gently.

"Doesn't make sense," Laura corrected. Then she brightened. "I was gonna get some warm milk, Ma, but I know you don't like me to use the stove unless you're close by. Could we?"

"Certainly! We will warm some milk and both have a drink and then go to bed." Caroline held her hand out. "Deal?"

Laura took it. "Deal."

As they walked together toward the house, Caroline cast one last longing look over her shoulder. She had hoped to see Charles riding toward her. Still, she knew that was only wishful thinking. If he and Alan had traveled straight through without stopping, they would only be a few miles outside of the city. It would be at least another week before she saw him.

And she _would_ see him.

As Laura entered the house Caroline paused. She closed her eyes and lifted one hand up toward the sky, petitioning the one she knew loved Charles more than she did to keep him safe.

Then she went in and enjoyed her glass of milk.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He'd thought his head was throbbing before!

Charles blinked and tried to make sense of the world around him. At the moment it was swimmin' like a fish in one of those little glass bowls. He blinked once more, closed his eyes, drew a breath, and tried again. This time things began to settle. Not into any kind of pretty picture though.

He was lying on the ground looking up into a face hard as iron.

"So you're alive," the yellow-haired man said and then spit tobacco to the side. "Pity."

He was a relatively tall man – taller than him – with hair the color of straw, a mustache to match, and two days growth of beard. Whoever he was, he was the one with the army boots. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt and pants with stripes of gold running down the side.

"Leave him alone, Newell. Ingalls hasn't done anything wrong other than aiding and abetting."

"And resistin' arrest," Newell cast over his shoulder without looking away.

The man he couldn't see snorted. "You just go ahead, Wilts. _You_ tell that to the man who examines him and sees how you struck him from _behind_."

"Ain't likely no one's gonna examine this one," the soldier growled to himself. Then he added, loud enough for his companion to hear. "Like Marshal Brush said, Ingalls, you're wanted for 'aiding and abetting' a savage. You could hang for that, you know?" Newell spit again and then moved toward Alan. "You really think that heathen over there is worth it? Looked like he was ready enough to slit your throat."

He couldn't really see Alan, so Charles tried to right himself and sit up. It was only then he realized he was bound hand _and_ foot. As his weary mind processed the dire situation he was in, he attempted once more to get a look at the boy. Alan was laying on the ground. From the way his body was twisted, it was obvious he had fallen where he lay, most likely after this man, Newell Wilts, had beat him.

Suddenly, Charles remembered the boy had been shot as well.

"Have you tended to his wound?" he called after the army man.

Newell looked at him and scoffed. "You don't 'tend' a rabid dog, Ingalls. There's other things to do with it. You should know that."

The man who traveled with Wilts appeared out of the trees. Pushing past the soldier, he walked over to where Alan lay and knelt to check the boy. Sensing him watching Brush said, almost apologetically, "In case you are wondering, the bullet went clean through. There doesn't seem to be any sign of infection." Rising, the man came to his side. "I'm sorry about this, Mister Ingalls. Sorry you got involved, and sorry you got hurt. My...partner," he shot a look at Newell, "is a little overzealous where the natives are concerned."

The soldier sneered. "'Overzealous'. You try watching your family burn before your eyes, Brush, and see just how zealous _you_ get."

As the soldier walked away into the trees, Charles looked at the man who had spoken to him. He had straight blond hair turning to brown and was of a medium build and height. He seemed vaguely familiar. Against the pounding of his head, the farmer asked, "Do I know you?"

The man knelt beside him. "My name's Jefferson Brush. U. S. marshalJefferson Brush. We've met before."

Charles frowned. "My head's a bit muddled."

The other man's eyes opened wide. "A little? After the way Captain Wilts hit you, I'm surprised you have a brain left!" He scowled in the other man's direction. "Newell lost his wife and kids in the Dakota War. He's one of the army men who was at the Battle of Wood Lake. When he got home, everything was gone. Burned to the ground." Jefferson paused. "I won't tell you what was done to his missus. Newell hasn't been, well, quite 'right' since then, if you know what I mean."

These were the stories, on both sides. Needless killing and unending grief.

Brush sat down beside him. "I was one of the men traveling with Jim Anders last spring."

Charles could see him now, standing outside by the fence that surrounded the cabin they had weathered the blizzard in. Since Anders had changed his mind about taking Jack Lame Horse into custody, he waved his men off and then went to join them, not revealing that Lame Horse was there with him. Along with the native, he had watched the marshal and his men ride away.

It seemed Jefferson Brush had come back.

Charles nodded toward Alan where he lay. "What do you want with the boy?"

Brush pursed his lips. "I don't suppose he told you what he did in Mankato?"

He shook his head. "No."

"We were trailing him. Almost had him. He'd been talking to his grandfather through the window in the jail. When he saw us he ran." Brush glanced at Alan and then back at him. "He set fire to a store to distract us. There was a man inside."

Charles' heart sank. "Did he...?"

Brush nodded. "He's dead. Now, I don't for one minute think the boy meant to kill him. In fact there are witnesses who swear Alan warned the man and he wouldn't listen. Still," he drew in a breath, "he's wanted for murder and Captain Wilts is damned determined to see him hang right alongside his grandfather."

Charles winced as he shifted and, for a moment, was afraid he was going to pass out. Brush' hand was on his shoulder in a second. "You okay?"

"Right as rain," he snorted. "When it's going sideways."

Jefferson Brush stared at him. He laughed and then sobered quickly. "From what I hear, you are a man of your word, Mister Ingalls. Did I hear right?"

Charles nodded.

"If you promise not to run, I'll free your hands and feet so you can be more comfortable."

It was a tough decision. These men were the law, but it was obvious that Captain Wilts was unstable. Still, at this point runnin' was about the furthest thing from his mind. His throat smarted and his head was poundin'. More than that, Alan needed a doctor and the only way that was going to happen was to let these men take them to Mankato.

He just hoped they would make it there alive.

"You have my word," he said at last.

Immediately Jefferson set about loosening his bonds. When he'd finished, the marshal eyed his forehead. "That wound looks pretty angry. How does it feel?"

"Oh, 'bout like someone took a hot cooking pan to it," he said.

Jefferson was shaking his head. "Jim told me about you. Orneriest cuss he'd ever met, he said. 'Bound and determined to get himself killed, and all for an Indian he didn't know.'"

"Sounds about right."

"Why? Because Lame Horse saved your life?"

Charles was rubbing his wrists, trying to get the circulation back into them. "He saved my family too by riskin' _his_ life to bring us meat, even though he knew Anders was there gunning for him. But even if he hadn't, I wouldn't have turned him over."

The marshal rocked back on his heels. "Care to tell me why? Jack Lame Horse rode with Little Crow. There's a lot of innocent white men and women's deaths can be laid at his feet."

"And just as many innocent Indian deaths can be laid at the white man's. During and _after_ the war. President Lincoln pardoned the Indians who fought. He said they were just defendin' their homes, and he was right." Charles held the other man's gaze. "Wouldn't _you_ have done the same?"

Jefferson Brush regarded him for a moment, saying nothing. Then he grinned. "Anders was right. You are a most _unusual_ man."

"If I am," Charles countered quickly, "then it's a sad world."

Brush rose to his feet. He stared at the point in the woods through which Captain Newell had disappeared. "It is that, Mister Ingalls. It is that."

"So what's next?" Charles asked.

Brush looked at him. "How about a cup of coffee?"

He smiled and nodded his head. Then Charles' eyes went to Alan. "Do you mind if I take a look at the boy?"

Again, Brush looked at the trees. "Make it brief. Wilts isn't going to be happy when he finds out I untied you. I can't be held accountable for what he will do if he thinks you are trying to free him."

Charles nodded and then rose shakily to his feet. Crossing over to where Alan lay, he crouched at his side. As he suspected, the boy had been handled roughly, though it wasn't quite a beating. Knowing Alan, he'd probably provoked the army man, though that didn't excuse what had been done. Reaching out, he touched the boy's good shoulder.

"Alan. Alan, are you awake?"

"Go away, white man," he replied, his words slurred from pain and the injuries to his face.

"I have a name, remember? What do you think? Not usin' it makes me less a man?" Charles hesitated. Then he said what he'd been thinking for a long time. "You know, you're no better than the men you look down on. You think of them as somethin' less than human. Just like _they_ think of you."

The boy shot him an angry glare. "You will not say such things!"

Charles snorted. "I _will_ say such things. You're full of so much hate – just like they are – that you can't see the truth. Someone needs to _make_ you see it." He paused. "Your grandfather would be ashamed of you."

Alan was bound. It was a good thing, otherwise he probably would have been minus one head of hair. The boy reared up like a wild animal, spitting and snarling until his strength ran out.

It didn't take long.

As he fell back to the ground, he whimpered, "Go away..."

Charles pursed his lips. He reached out again and placed a hand on the boy's hair. Alan tried to throw it off, but he was too weak.

"Son, I know you've been hurt by white men and I'm sorry for that. But you can't blame all white men for what one or a few have done. If you do, you're no better than the white men who blame all Indians for the crimes of a few." Charles looked toward the trees. Wilts had yet to reappear. "You're grandfather understands. That's why he helped me and mine. I'm sure he'd want you to understand too."

"Ingalls," Jefferson Brush called.

He heard it. Wilts Newell moving through the trees, returning to camp. Charles rose and returned to the fire just as the army man appeared. He watched as Marshal Brush went to talk to him but paid little attention to the argument that followed. He'd either remain free or he wouldn't. He'd given his word and though Newell probably wouldn't take it, he meant to keep it. With a last glance at the tall blond man, he slid to the ground and rested his aching head on his arm and, with trust in his God for the day to come, went to sleep.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Laura found her sister awake when she returned to her bed. Mary was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She climbed in beside her and pulled the coverlet up to her chin and waited, wondering if Mary would say anything. When a few minutes passed and she didn't, Laura rolled over to her side and closed her eyes and tried to go sleep. She'd just about made it when her sister's voice sounded in the dark.

"Laura? Are you asleep?"

"Just about," she replied. "Can't you sleep?"

Mary sighed. "I had a bad dream."

She knew that, of course, but she didn't say it. "What about?"

The blonde girl remained silent for several heartbeats. "Are you scared of Indians, Laura?"

Laura rolled over and looked at her sister. "Gosh, no."

Mary's blue eyes were wide and they shone like silver dollars in the moonlight that slipped in the window. "How can you not be? Don't you remember that day when they came in the cabin and took Pa's tobacco? Ma was so scared."

"We been over this before, Mary. Ma was scared 'cause she didn't know those Indians. After the chief came and she knew they didn't want to hurt us, she wasn't scared no more."

Her sister sat up. "But they _did_ want to hurt us! Don't you remember those drums? They were gonna kill us!"

"But they _didn't!_ " She sat up too. "Once they got to know us, they didn't!"

Mary wrapped her arms around her body. "I hate them," she said, her voice hushed but fierce. "I hate Indians, Laura!"

Laura shook her head. "You don't hate them, Mary, you're just scared of them. Pa always says hatin' what we fear makes us feel better, like we got some control over it." She paused. "I'm scared too, Mary, but I ain't scared of the Indians."

'What are _you_ scared of?" her sister asked.

She swallowed. "That Pa will get hurt. I ain't really afraid of Alan, he's just a boy. But there's bad men out there who would hurt Alan just _'cause_ he's an Indian and they hate all Indians. They'd hurt Pa too 'cause he's helpin' him."

Mary frowned. "Am I like those bad men, Laura?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Because I hate all Indians for what one or two did?"

Laura thought a moment. "Well, in a way, I suppose you are. But you're smart enough to see it, so it don't count. You wouldn't really hurt an Indian just ' _cause_ he was an Indian, would you?"

Her sister thought long and hard. Finally, she said, "No. I wouldn't."

"What are you two up to?" a soft voice asked. "You should be sleeping."

They turned at the same time. Ma was just about up the ladder.

"Sorry, Ma," Mary said. "I had a bad dream. Laura was helping me get past it."

Their mother came to their bed and sat on the side of it. She indicated they should both lay down and then pulled the coverlet up to their chins. She looked at Mary first and then at her. "You're worried about your pa."

They both nodded.

"Well, so am I." Ma smiled. "Now, what do you suppose we should do about that?"

Laura knitted her brows together. "I suppose we could pray."

Her mother reached out and pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. "I think that's a very good idea. Who would like to start?"

"You go ahead, Ma," Mary said.

"All right. You next then, and Laura, you finish up."

She nodded and closed her eyes.

"Dear Heavenly father," her mother said, her voice soft and sweet, "please take care of our beloved husband and father. Give him the strength and courage he needs to do what he has to do and then make his path easy and straight back to us." She paused. "Mary?"

Her sister cleared her throat. "I want to ask You to keep Pa safe too, God," she said, "but first of all, I want to ask you to help me not be afraid of the Indians and to see that they're people, just like us." She was silent a moment and then finished, "Please God, keep Pa safe. Bring him home soon."

There was a moment of silence into which her mother's voice came. "Laura?"

She twisted her lips and thought a moment. Ma and Mary had already asked God to keep Pa safe, so she was afraid God would think she didn't believe He was gonna do it if she asked again. The same thing went for askin' about Mary and the Indians.

What was a girl to do?

In the end she decided to pray for Alan.

"Hello God," she started. "Thank you for hearing Ma and Mary's prayers. I got one to add of my own. You know Alan, God, since you made him. He's awful angry and I think he's hurtin' too. My pa's tryin' to help him. Please help Pa do that. Please help Pa show him that not all white people are bad, that some of us are nice, and that we think Indians are nice too."

After a moment her mother asked, "And?"

Laura opened one eye to find her mother watching her.

"Is it not trustin' God if I ask Him to keep Pa safe too after you and Mary did?"

Her mother's smile was soft. "You go ahead. God hears every prayer."

She clamped her eyes shut again. "And please keep Pa safe 'cause we love him. Amen."

When she looked again, her mother had tears in her eyes. She sniffed them back as she kissed each of them on the forehead and rose to her feet.

"Sleep tight," she whispered, and was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

"Ingalls. Ingalls, wake up!"

It wasn't easy.

Charles moaned and attempted to curl back into a ball, but the hand on his shoulder that was shaking him was insistent.

"Ingalls! Wilts is gone. So is the boy!"

 _That_ penetrated.

With a groan Charles rolled over onto his side and then sat up. It took a moment to gain enough balance to look up at Jefferson Brush who was standing over him, looking at him with concern.

"Are you all right?" Brush asked. "That would looks nasty."

The curly-haired man reached up to feel the cut on his forehead. It was hot to the touch and obviously infected. He closed his eyes, swallowed past the pain handling it had caused, and then opened them and shrugged his answer.

Brush shook his head. "I tried to tell the lawman I work under that Captain Wilts was unstable, but he wouldn't listen. Newell's a decorated veteran and you just don't turn down someone like that when he offers to help." The marshal paused. "I think he meant to kill you." When Charles looked up at him, he added quietly, "I know he'll kill that boy."

That got him to his feet. Brush caught his arm and helped him up, and then steadied him as he found his balance.

"Can you travel?" Jefferson asked.

He'd knelt carefully and caught his hat up from the grass. As he planted it on his head, Charles nodded. "I've had worse."

The marshal was looking him up and down. He had a frown on his face. Charles felt like he did when he'd dressed for church and Caroline stood with her hands on her hips lookin' at him, obviously not approvin' of what she saw.

"What?"

"I was just thinking that if a man like you is fighting so hard to keep Jack Lame Horse from swinging, then there must be something to it. It's true then? What Anders said? Lame Horse really _did_ risk his life and freedom to save your family?"

"More than that," Charles said, "he risked his life and freedom to save _Anders_ , when he knew Anders wanted him dead."

Marshal Brush drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. "And you think the boy's the same type?"

Charles snorted. The grin that twisted his lips was one of a father. "You got any boys around that age?"

Jefferson nodded. Then he smiled too. "Point taken."

"Alan's got the potential to be somethin' special," Charles said at last. "I don't know when I met anyone so determined. Like my wife says, if someone can just aim it in the right direction he'll be a mighty fine leader for his people one day."

"If he survives," Brush said as he turned and looked in the direction Newell Wilts had taken with his captive. A second later, the marshal turned back to look at him, and then he walked past him toward the horses. Wilts was on foot. They would have to be too. The woods were too thick for riding with any kind of speed or consistency. Charles eyes followed the other man as he made a few adjustments to his gear and then came back with a rifle in each hand.

As he handed one to him, the man said, "As an official U.S. marshal, I'm dropping any and all charges that I might have pressed against you, Ingalls. And I hereby deputize you to aid and assist in the search for Newell Wilts who has committed a crime by taking a prisoner of the state away with the intent to harm him."

Charles took the rifle. He smiled when he realized it was his own. As the marshal handed him the leather bag that held his powder, cartridges, and such, he nodded his thanks.

Brush was staring at him again. "I'll stand up for you in court as a witness," he said quietly. "I'll tell the judge how honest and trustworthy you are and that he can believe whatever you tell him about Jack Lame Horse and his grandson."

He was touched. "Thank you." A smile tweaked the ends of his lips. "I'll just do my best to try to live up to that."

Jefferson Brush's hand landed on his shoulder. "We're going after a madman, Charles. You just try your best to live."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline Ingalls sat in the church pew with her fingers knitted together in her lap. She was dressed in her Sunday best with her cap fixed firmly on her head. She'd taken the girls to the Edwards. Grace had said she would look after them. Isaiah had accompanied her into town and sat at her side. The meeting had been changed from night to noon to accommodate a shift in the reverend's schedule. All of the shops had been forced to close to attend, and so everyone who _was_ in attendance knew the matter was serious. There had been a brief service first. Before it began there were announcements and they sang a few hymns. Finally the Reverend Alden spoke. His short sermon focused on Proverbs 19:9: _A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall perish._ She'd sat there through it, looking forward, wishing for the feel of her husband's hand on her own; for the strength Charles' mere presence gave her.

She felt very alone.

Isaiah had grumbled about halfway through the sermonette, saying something about that 'old bat' in the pew directly across from theirs. She should have scolded him, but it just wasn't in her. Harriet had broken into the announcements with her own opinion, she'd sung the hymns with gusto, and now, as the Reverend finished by quoting the ninth commandment, 'thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor', the rich woman was beaming and nodding her head as if she knew those words were meant for everyone in the room _but_ her.

Caroline drew in a sharp breath and let it out through her nostrils.

She'd promised Laura she wouldn't pop the old bat in the nose and she meant it!

Suddenly, Caroline laughed. She could just see her girls' faces if she came home with a black eye.

"Somethin's funny, you need to let me know," Isaiah whispered. "I was just wishin' I'd brought a jug with me."

She laughed again.

Harriet was glaring at her.

The reverend cleared his throat. "Now, as to the reason I called this meeting."

Caroline's smile vanished. She drew in another breath and held it. A moment later Isaiah's hand landed on her lower arm. She glanced at him as he withdrew it, her eyes thanking him for his support.

"Of late the powers of darkness have been at work in our fair town," the revered said to a general mumble of exclamations of dismay and surprise. "According the God, rumor-mongering is one of the greatest sins, so great it was included among the ten commandments." The older man was careful not to look at anyone in particular – for now. "It has come to my attention that an upstanding member of our church and community has been slandered greatly. This meeting is intended to put an end to that."

Caroline glanced at Harriet. Nel's wife looked shocked and was busy expressing that shock to her co-conspirator's Lenora and Bessie.

All three women were pointedly ignoring her.

Suddenly, the Reverend Alden looked straight at her. "Mrs. Ingalls, would you join me on the dais?"

Caroline felt the color drain from her face.

As she rose, the reverend continued. "I had intended to waltz around this matter, speaking in cloaked terms of who and what is involved; hoping the good conscience of the architects of this heinous slander would chastise them into confessing. It would be easier on both me and the community – as well as those who have been harmed." He permitted his lips to curl with a slight smile. "The Good Lord made it quite clear to me in my devotions earlier today that this was my intent and _not_ His."

She was at his side now. The room was hushed, with barely even a titter of conversation. Harriet sat bolt upright in her seat. She was glowering at her. So was Bessie, though Lenora had the good sense to look down.

"You will not find in our community a better example of what God intended the family to be than the Ingalls. They are hard-working, honest people, who deserve to be admired and esteemed, not disapproved of or condemned. The plain word for 'false witness' is lies." The older man looked directly at Harriet Oleson's portion of the church. "It has come to my attention that this is precisely what is happening and it can be laid at the feet of three of our congregation, and may I say I am ashamed of you all." He paused a moment and then went on. "Our Good Lord tells us in Matthew 18:17 that if the one who bears false witness ' _shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church_.' These are our Lord's words," he said, letting the weight of them fall, "not mine."

Caroline had been looking at the parishioner's before her. In the end her eyes fastened on Isaiah and remained there, drawing encouragement from what she saw.

"I will not dignify this slander by naming it," the older man continued. "You have all heard it and sadly, many of you have been a party to it. I believe Matthew's call for the injured party to go to one, and then to more has already been fulfilled. This is the moment for the ones who started this to come forward and make peace with the one they have harmed, else," this pause was dramatic, "I shall be forced to move on to Matthew's last instruction, ' _But if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican_.' His eyes had not left Harriet. "Or woman."

There was a general murmur this time. Since Caroline was facing them, she could see poor Nels squirming in the seat beside his busybody wife. She knew this was important – _so_ important – but she knew as well what it would do to the families of those involved. The crowd was fickle, as Holy Week proved. All too easily the shame and guilt people felt could be turned on others in less than Christian ways. She hadn't wanted it to come to this.

Really, she hadn't.

Sensing her unease, the Reverend Alden looked at her and smiled. Then he turned back to the congregation.

"I've said my piece. I am dismissing all of you. Mrs. Ingalls will remain behind. I intend to share a light lunch with her. I will give those who have transgressed God's word until two o'clock to come forward and confess their sin and offer an apology to the one they have born false witness against. And since Charles is not here, the apology will be made to Mrs. Ingalls – in person." Again, his eyes remained riveted to the side of the church Harriet and the other women occupied.

"Two o'clock and no later. This has gone on long enough. If the perpetrators do not come forward, they will be named at the service this Sunday."

The members of the congregation rose, mostly in silence, and filed out of the church. Some would return to their workplaces, she knew, and others to their homes. Her gaze, of course, followed Harriet Oleson who was deep in a discussion with Bessie and Lenora. The latter turned and looked at her just as she reached the door.

When the church was empty, Caroline let out a breath. She thought it was probably the same one she had drawn when the reverend started.

"Do you think you can eat something, Caroline?" the clergyman asked her. "You must keep up your strength."

"For the battle ahead?" she asked with a weak smile.

He glanced in the direction the women had gone. "Oh, I imagine those three will come here in a little while like pups with their tales tucked between their legs. It won't be easy for them, but..." He sighed and shook his head. "Sadly, the opinion of the town matters too much to them for them not too. Would that Jesus' opinion of them mattered more."

Amen to that.

"Now, if you feel you can eat, I have some sandwiches, a little fruit, and tea prepared."

She beamed, relaxing for the first time since arriving at the church. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

As they began to walk toward the back room, the Reverend Alden paused and turned to her. "Charles will be proud of you, you know, for having the courage to stand up for what is right."

She nodded. Her husband had done it before and would do it again – and most likely in response to some further vitriol that Harriet chose to spread around. She doubted today would really change the woman. It would happen again. There was something deep inside Harriet, some kind of insecurity that made her strike out at those who had less in wealth than her, but more in love.

The blonde woman shrugged. Her smile was chagrined. "I don't know about courage. I couldn't very well say 'no' when you called me up front, now, could I?"

" _A wife of noble character who can find?"_ he replied, quoting Proverbs 31. " _She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life."_

Caroline blushed. Tears entered her eyes. "You're too kind."

"And _you_ are too modest." He laughed at her startled expression. "Are you arguing with God?"

The blush deepened and she smiled. "I'd have less chance of winning with Him than I do with Charles."

The reverend placed a hand on her arm and directed her toward the table in the back room. "Shall we?"

A nice lunch. Pleasant company and then...

Back to the fiery furnace.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Pain exploded as Alan opened his eyes. A strange sound had awakened him. It was rhythmic – there was a _crunch_ , usually followed by a grunt, and then the noise of stone and dirt striking the ground. Blinking away the dried blood that sealed his eyelashes together, the native shifted slightly and looked for its origin. A tall white man with yellow hair, wearing a dark blue uniform, stood not too far away. He balanced one arm on the handle of the shovel he was wielding, while the other lifted a canteen to his lips. Before him lay a pile of dirt and next to it, an open hole. It was a grave.

 _His_ grave.

He had taken a beating at this white man's hands the night before. The final blow had been a hard one. The soldier's knuckles had split his skin in several places – by his lip, on the cheek beneath his right eye, on his temple. It had also left him senseless. When he had first awakened he had been aware that someone was carrying him. He'd struggled briefly, but pain and exhaustion had cast him quickly back into the darkness. Alan's jaw tightened as he thought of the multiple betrayals he had suffered since his journey with Charles Ingalls had begun. He had been right. _All_ white men were the same. There was no law for the red man. It had been the intent all along for him to be captured and killed, and to make it look as though he had tried to escape. With three white men testifying to that fact, and one of them a solder, no one would question his death. His body would be dug up by scavengers and his bones distributed to the wind and no one would ever be the wiser.

Alan closed his eyes and rested his battered face on the ground. They had won.

A slight moan escaped him. There was no fight left in him. He had no more strength. His only regret was that he would never see his grandfather again, nor would he save him from hanging. As tears entered his eyes, Alan remembered words Jack Lame Horse had spoken to him long ago as they sat together by a stream fishing. He had not wanted to hear them at the time. He spoke of the Creator and said that they and their lives were only clay to be worked in the Great Father's hand; that their days were His and had not been given to them to work their own will. The Creator of all said as well to bless those who cursed you, and to ask Him for the ones who mistreated you. In this way, the Great Father said, you heaped up burning coals on their heads.

The Creator of _all._

Alan grimaced as the digging began again. He knew he had only minutes left to live. His grandfather had told him that same day how he, Jack Lame Horse, had found forgiveness for the white man. It was not because they deserved it, but because _he_ didnot deserve it any more than they. His red grandfather told him of how he had ridden with Little Crow and killed many of the settlers. When he remarked that he wished he could have been there as well, to count coup and kill as many white men, women, and children as _he_ could, the older man had shaken his head. It was honorable in war to kill the men who also found honor in killing you, but to kill their women and children, this was murder. Alan shivered as he remembered what followed. 'I did this," Jack Lame Horse said. 'I deserve to die, but I _desire_ to live. It is no different with the white men who are our enemies.'

The soldier had put the shovel down and taken up his gun.

He was about to meet his Creator.

Did he have the strength, Alan wondered, even as a white man sought to kill him, to admit he had been wrong?

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Charles and Jefferson Brush crouched in a tall stand of cattails. From their position, they could see both Newell Wilts and Alan, who was laying in a heap on the ground. They debated in hushed voices what they should do. Brush was a former army man himself and was all for a frontal assault. He did, however, hesitate to kill another army man, no matter what that man might have done or was contemplating doing. The army did not look lightly upon the execution of one of their own. On the other hand, they had no idea if Wilts would listen to reason. As the one of them who seemed the less threatening, Charles had offered to show himself and talk to the man. After he got done telling him what an idiot he thought he was, the marshal had softened his tone and suggested they step out together. _He_ thought that was foolish, since they would put them both right in Wilts sites.

Which had brought them to the standstill they were at now and was why they were crouchin' in the cattails.

Finally, Brush gave in. "All right. I'll let you go in first, but you be sure to leave a clean line of sight between me and Wilts. I don't want to shoot you by mistake."

Charles' brows elevated. "I will, since I don't want you to do that either."

Brush indicated the scene before them. "You better do it now."

He looked up. Newell Wilts was headed for Alan. Charles looked at the weapon in the soldier's hand. If Wilts meant to kill the boy it was loaded and primed.

He'd make an awful easy target.

The curly-haired man closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a quick prayer that he be returned to his family. Then he handed his weapon to Brush and rose to his feet.

"Wilts! Newell Wilts!" he called as he stepped out of the screen of the foliage. "We need to –"

The soldier had reacted as expected. The loaded rifle was now pointed at _him._

Charles swallowed over his fear. A blast to the belly was not the way he wanted to go.

He raised his hands and finished his sentence. "We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about, Ingalls!" the soldier snarled as he raised his rifle and sighted along it. "You leave or you die."

The curly-haired man heard the sound of a rifle being levered behind him as well as the noise of Marshal Brush moving forward in the leaves. It was going to be a scene of mass death in short order if something or someone didn't intervene.

Charles resisted glancing at the man behind him. Brush had not showed himself, so there was still a chance to avert disaster.

"You let the boy go, Wilts, and you just ride away and no one will have to know."

"Know what?" the soldier countered sharply. "That I caught a heathen trying to slit my throat and killed him? I feel sorry for you, Ingalls. You think someone will care."

"I care," he went on. "Others do too and more than you think. The war's over, Wilts. What you're thinkin' of doin' ain't justice, it's murder."

The soldier's hand did not waver. "I can just as easily tell them that a white man betrayed his own by aiding him and I had to kill him too."

"You going to kill me as well, Wilts?" Jefferson Brush asked as he rose and stepped out of the grasses. He too had his rifle primed and ready.

Wilts looked from the one of them to the other. "Either way, one of you is gonna die." His lips curled in a cruel sneer. "I'm thinkin' its gonna be Mister Ingalls here because he irritates me the most."

"I'll report it as murder. You'll be court-martialed and hang."

The yellow-haired soldier scoffed. "What makes you think I care?"

It was then Charles realized the man before them was truly mad. Somewhere in the time since he had taken Alan, Newell Wilts had gone over the edge.

He would kill them all if he could.

For several heartbeats they remained as they were – Wilts holding a rifle on him, Brush doing the same to Wilts. As he waited, his heart pounding, Charles' gaze went to Alan.

The boy was moving.

His eyes snapped up, but not in time. Wilts realized what the wounded boy was doing – trying to crawl toward him to somehow put him off balance. The soldier kicked at Alan. As the toe of his boot struck the boy's head, he took aim and fired. With a startled cry, Jefferson Brush went down, his own gun firing wide as he fell. As the madman loaded again, Charles dove for Brush's rifle. He was fast.

But not fast enough.

He felt the tip of the soldier's rifle press into his hair. "I figured he'd fall for that," Newell Wilts scoffed. Let his guard down." The man's voice grew even and cold. His finger moved toward the trigger. "Now for you, Indian lover."

Charles started at the sound of the shot. He swore his heart stopped. But then he realized, no, it was still beating – and beating very fast. Light-headed, he fell back into the grass just as Newell Wilts' body collapsed to the ground.

There was a bullet hole in the soldier's chest just above his heart.

Dazed, Charles was at first only half-aware of the long-legged figure wearing moccasin boots that passed by him. The man had shoulder-length black hair and was dressed as many Indians were these days in a pair of black pants and a white shirt with a heavy coat over the top. He had no feathers or other adornment and wore a hat much like his. The man went to Alan and knelt by him. He tenderly touched the boy's head and then laid an open palm on his chest. Seemingly satisfied that the boy was alive, he rose and crossed back to where Charles sat, stunned, in the wet grass and offered him a hand. The curly-haired man glanced at Wilts who lay silent on the grass, and then at Jefferson Brush. The lawman had a hand on his right shoulder. Blood was seeping through his fingers, but a nod indicated he would be all right. Marshal Brush's eyes were wide with wonder as well.

Who was this man who had saved them?

As he found his feet, Charles said a simple, "Thank you."

The stranger met his gaze. He _was_ an Indian and looked by the color of his skin to be wholly that. He had a strong face with a solid firm mouth and intelligent light brown eyes. Something sparked in them. Charles was surprised to find what it was.

"It is I who must thank you," the man said. Then he turned to Brush who had gotten to his feet and limped to stand beside them. "I owe you as well, Marshal Brush, for seeking to do justice and not to murder as this man would have done." A slight smile touched his eyes. "Though I have little faith in the white man's justice."

"Who are you?" Brush asked bluntly.

Charles had been staring at the man. There was something impossibly familiar about him; about the way he held his body, about his face and most of all, about those eyes that were so like Alan's.

"You're Jack Lame Horse's son, aren't you?" he asked abruptly. "Alan's father."

"I am the father of Alowan," he replied.

"Alowan?"

He nodded. "It is my son's true name, not the one given to him by my wife's white father."

"You're the one who helped me, aren't you?" Charles asked. "Who tended my wound and left me supplies?"

"How long have you been trailing us?" the marshal asked. "I never saw any signs."

The native smiled. "And you would not. My father trained me well."

It was really none of his business, but Charles asked anyhow. "What brought you here? Alan...Alowan said you left long ago. In fact," he winced, "he told me you were dead."

A sadness entered the man's eyes. "I became...lost. I did not know what world I belonged in." He straightened up and met Charles' assessing gaze. "In the end I decided I belonged in neither. I went away. One night when I had had too much of the white man's fire water, I woke to find myself next to the body of a man. I do not know if I killed him. The white men believed I did and so I ran to Canada."

"What brought you back?" Brush asked.

Alowan's father turned toward him. "Word of my father's trial and," he looked at Alan, "my son."

Charles knew Jefferson Brush was considering what his duty as a U.S marshal was. He had opened his mouth to speak but, as he did, Alowan began to wake up.

The boy's father met their gazes, his still calm and even, and then went to kneel beside his son. The boy moaned as he opened his eyes and focused on the figure next to him.

"Grand...father?" he asked.

The older man placed a hand on his chest. "No, it is not your grandfather. It is I, Sota, your father."

Alan's voice was a hollow whisper. "Father?"

Sota turned to look at them. "I will take my son to my lodge now."

Jefferson Brush bristled. "You see here, I have to take him in. From what you said, I should probably take _you_ in too."

"So they can both hang?" Charles demanded. "What is their crime? Being hunted, chased, and treated like animals? Or is it bein' driven off their land and left desperate with little or no means to survive?"

"Ingalls! They're both wanted for murder. I can't – "

"Jefferson, you know what the witnesses said. Alan didn't kill anyone and I doubt," he paused, "I doubt Sota did either. They are both a part of Jack Lame Horse. He could have killed me, killed my family _and_ Anders, and no one would have been the wiser. He didn't. Instead he sacrificed himself to save us." Charles looked at the native man. Sota had gathered his son into his arms and risen to his feet. "I have a feeling this man would have done no different."

Brush was wavering. He drew a breath and then swallowed hard. "I suppose we could lie and say they escaped."

The curly-headed man smiled. He caught the lawman by his good shoulder and spun him around. After a count to ten Charles turned back. Sota and Alowan were gone.

"It's no lie," he said, "they're gone. Now how about we tend to that shoulder of yours."


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

Laura Ingalls went once again to the door of the Edwards' house and looked out. It was gettin' late in the day and she was worried about their ma. Ma had been awful mysterious when she brought them to their friends' home. She'd been surprised when her ma was wearing her Sunday clothes in the middle of the week and even more surprised when they got to the Edwards to find Mister Edwards was too. Mary said it had something to do with what people had been saying about their pa, but she couldn't figure out what. Laura's lips twisted with a grin. When Ma and Mister Edwards had driven off, it looked like they were goin' on a date.

Pa would sure be sore if that was the case!

Mary sighed as she came to stand beside her. "Nothing yet?" she asked.

Laura shook her head.

"I declare, you two!" Grace Edwards remarked as she returned to the parlor from the kitchen. "Haven't you ever heard a watched pot never boils!"

She'd heard it. She'd checked it out.

It did _too_ boil.

"Yes, ma'am," Mary answered for the both of them.

"Now why don't you come over to the table and join Karl and Alyssa. I've got some fresh baked molasses cookies and – "

Mrs. Edwards heard it too. Horses hooves and the sound of wheels – and two voices singin' ' _Old Dan_ Tucker' at the top of their lungs

Laura flung the door open and dashed outside shouting, "Ma! Ma!"

Mary and Carrie weren't far behind.

Mister Edwards was helping their mother down from the wagon.

She didn't even complain when they almost knocked her over.

"Goodness!" Ma exclaimed as she hugged them. "You'd think I'd been gone a year!"

It felt like a year – with Pa gone too.

Grace had followed behind them. She looked at Mister Edwards and then asked their ma, "How did...things go?"

Their mother glanced at them and then seemed to make up something in her mind. She picked up Carrie and headed for the house. "Come inside, all of you," she said, "and I'll tell you."

They listened with rapt attention as their ma told them what her trip into town had been for, and how the minister had called out Mrs. Oleson and those other two old busybodies Bessie and Lenora right in front of everyone. She kind of wished Nellie had been there too, but her ma told her Nellie was only imitatin' her Ma and Mrs. Oleson was the real problem. The room grew hushed as ma came to the part after lunch where the church door opened and the three old busybodies darted in. Ma said Mrs. Oleson looked like a sneak thief. She had on her winter cloak even though it wasn't winter and had the hood pulled way forward over her head so her face didn't show. Miss Lenora and Miss Bessie were the same. It was like they thought they could hide from the Lord.

Laura shook her head. Weren't _no one_ could do that.

"What ever did Harriet say?" Grace asked.

"Well, she didn't _exactly_ admit she was the one who started the rumors." Their mother smiled. She stood up and went over to Mary, who was standing by the table listening. Taking her sister by the arms, their ma led her into the middle of the room. With a little grin, she said, "Now, Mary, you pretend to be me."

At first Mary was a little flustered, then she smiled. She pulled her ribbon from her hair and tied the blonde waves back and flipped the tail into a little bun. Then she got that 'look' ma had when they'd done somethin' wrong. Her eyes kind of narrowed and her lips turned down at the corners. Then she crossed her arms and began to tap her toe.

Their ma nearly split a gut.

"Do I really look like that?" she asked as the laughter settled. When they both nodded enthusiastically, she shook her head. "It's a wonder I haven't scared all of you off." Sobering slightly, Ma said to Mary, "Now, you ask me what I have to say."

"Harriet Oleson," Mary said with a scowl, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

Their mother raised a hand and began to wave it in that way Mrs. Oleson had, sort of fluttering it like a fan meant to drive a pest away. "Well, I... I never thought my silly little words would cause so much to-do! I can't imagine how they were misconstrued. I never meant to imply...well, I..." The other hand came up. This time it looked like she was fending off a swarm of bees. "Well, of course, Caroline, dear, I'm sorry! It goes without saying."

"Seems to me a _lot_ went 'without saying'," Isaiah growled.

Their mother had taken Mary by the hands. After planting a little kiss on her head, she looked at Mister Edwards. "You know, Harriet, Isaiah. That was quite an admission for her!"

"What about those other two mean old ladies?" Laura asked.

Her mother gave her that look – the one Mary had imitated so well. "Laura! I will not have you being disrespectful to your elders." She held the look a moment and then a smile broke over her lips. "Even if they are 'old bats' like Isaiah says."

"Ma!" Mary exclaimed.

Then they all laughed.

Later that night when Ma tucked them into bed she told them the Reverend Alden hadn't let the three women off so easily. He was going to the Indian reservation that day with Doctor Baker and, as a fitting punishment, he had 'enlisted' Mrs. Oleson and Misses Bessie and Lenora to go with him to tend and serve the sick Indians there.

Laura laid there while her ma and her sister talked, watching the older woman. Ma seemed happier now, but there was a shadow around her eyes, one that darkened her smile and let her know she was still sad.

When the blonde woman turned to her, she asked out of the blue, "Ma, are you okay"?

Her question startled her mother. "Of course. Why would you ask?"

She thought a moment. "Well, you just ain't," she paused to correct herself, "aren't the same."

"How's that?" Ma asked with a shrug of her shoulders.

"I don't know." She thought about it a moment. "I guess, it's like – when Pa's gone – part of you is gone too. You know? Like its missing?"

She hadn't meant to make her mother cry. She felt awful that she had.

Mary sat up and wrapped her arm around their mother's shoulders. Laura sat up too and took her hand.

"Pa's all right, Ma," Mary said, her voice soft. "He'll be back soon."

"Mary's right. Pa can look out for himself." Laura paused, She shook her head as she added firmly, "There ain't _no one_ like Pa!"

Her mother looked at the two of them, and then she gathered them into her arms. "What have I done to deserve you?" she asked through her tears.

Laura was pretty sure she meant that in a good way.

Their mother reared back. She took each of their faces in her hands and kissed them. Then she rose to her feet.

"You say your prayers and I'll say mine," she said quietly as she headed for the loft ladder. "Remember to praise God and _then_ to offer thanks before asking."

As their mother's head disappeared, Laura looked at her sister. "You really think Pa is okay?"

Mary rose and went to the window and looked out.

Neither one of them said a word.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The big city courtroom was filled to capacity. The weather, which had been unseasonably cold for spring, had swung toward hot and it was close and stuffy inside. Charles had left his heavy winter coat behind and wore a simple brown suit with a white shirt and string tie. Jefferson Brush had bought the suit for him the night before on the second evening they were in town. He'd objected, but the marshal explained that – in a town like Mankato and before a federal judge – appearances mattered, probably more than they should. Jefferson told him he could pay him back when he had the money, sayin' he wasn't goin' anywhere. Brush was in his Sunday best too. He had on a deep blue suit and had his marshal's badge pinned prominently on its lapel. Brush's keen eyes swept the courtroom, constantly assessing the crowd and noting its mood which kept swinging from interested to bored and on toward ugly.

Jack Lame Horse was sitting in the witness box. As before when he had known him, the old native hadn't said a word.

A court lawyer had been appointed for Lame Horse and the man was doin' his best. He was young and pretty inexperienced. Charles had listened in on a conversation between him and Brush and it seemed the city man was sympathetic to Lame Horse's cause, but he doubted they could get him off. There had been a long string of witnesses called by the prosecutor, Devin Hanks, who could place Jack Lame Horse on the battlefield and, while none of them had actually seen him kill a white man, they all accepted that he had.

Charles' head still hurt and he reached up to rub the skin just below the angry cut on his forehead. Brush had brought in a doctor that morning to take a look at it before they headed to the courthouse. He'd cleaned it up as best he could and then wound a fresh strip of linen around it. It showed now that he had to remove his hat. He just hoped no one thought he was workin' the wound to get their sympathy.

That would have been a darn foolish thing to do since it didn't appear any of them had any.

It was almost his turn to speak. The lawyer for the prosecution had presented most of his case, calling all those people. He knew he was next. He was what the court called a 'hostile' witness for the prosecution. The young lawyer, his name was Edwin Grey, had told him to answer all of the other attorney's questions honestly and to the best of his ability. That had brought a smile to Jefferson Brush's face.

"Ingalls doesn't _know_ any other way," he'd muttered, admiration in his tone.

"The state calls Charles Ingalls!" the bailiff announced.

Charles rose to his feet. He tried not to wobble. After he'd found his balance, he left his chair and went to take a seat in the witness box. He passed Jack Lame Horse on the way. The native's hands were chained behind his back. He looked like he had been roughly treated at some point. Still, if there was a man with dignity in that courtroom, it was him.

He was unbowed.

Lame Horse inclined his head toward him as they passed. He did the same.

"Mister Ingalls," the bailiff said as he opened the box.

Charles went in and stood.

The judge picked up the Bible on his desk and held it out to him. Charles reverently placed his hand on the worn leather cover.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing less, Mister Ingalls, so help you God?"

He looked at the man. He was a pretty good judge of character and this man looked hard but fair. Judge Winters was close to sixty, he reckoned, and had crisp blue eyes framed by a head of wiry silver hair. The older man wore his glasses low on his nose and a non-committal look on his face that suggested his mind was open.

Charles nodded. "I do."

"You may sit down, Mister Ingalls." The judge turned to the prosecutor then. "You may examine the witness."

The first few questions were the expected ones, who was he and where was he from, how did he meet the defendant, and so on. It was only as the prosecutor moved on to what happened inside the cabin that he started to lose his temper. Jack Anders couldn't be present, so he had sent a signed and sealed document stating what he remembered. The prosecutor kept takin' his words and twistin' them, makin' it sound like Jack Lame Horse had come back to kill them after his escape instead of bringin' meat to save them.

"Isn't it true," Hanks pressed, "that while you and your family were sleeping and defenseless the defendant stole a rifle and knife?"

He really didn't like the man. The red face he kept shovin' at him reminded him of a pig.

"It's true, but –"

"And isn't it also _true_ that he returned later in the day, startling you in the barn where you were once again completely defenseless?'

Charles frowned. "I didn't hear him comin', but he wasn't –"

"Didn't the Indian run once Marshal Anders called him out, indicating that he was guilty as charged and knew his life would be forfeit if he remained?"

"He ran because his life was in danger!" Charles countered, all but shouting. "You're twistin' everythin' Anders said."

The judge's voice sounded beside him. "Just answer the questions, Mister Ingalls."

He looked at the man, reassessing him. "But what he says ain't true."

Hanks looked triumphant. He held up Anders' statement and waved it. "It is _all_ in here. I suggest that if Mister Ingalls account of the incident differs from Marshal Anders, he be dismissed as a witness as he is obviously biased toward the native population and Jack Lame Horse in particular!"

A general hubbub broke out in the courtroom. The judge silenced it with a gavel strike. "There will be order in the court!" he boomed.

It took a minute, but there was.

And so it went, him saying one thing and the prosecutor twistin' and turnin' his words and Anders' so they said something else. He was furious by the time the judge finally said, "Your witness, Mister Grey."

Edwin Grey stepped up to the box and smiled at him. Concern in his eyes, he turned to the judge. "Judge Winters, Mister Ingalls was injured on his way here. Would it be possible to get him a glass of water and take a minute or two before beginning again?"

Before the prosecutor could object, the judge nodded. "Ten minute recess," he declared. "Bailiff, get Mister Ingalls a glass of water. I will be in my chambers."

Grey smiled at him. "You did well."

"He made me sound like a liar," Charles replied with a scoff.

"But you didn't sound like a liar," the defense attorney grinned. "You sounded like a man outraged that he was being _called_ a liar. There's a big difference, especially with Judge Winters."

"The judge is a fair man, Charles," Jefferson said as he joined them. "We're lucky he's the one who got the case."

Charles thanked the bailiff as the man handed him a glass of cool water. His head wound was throbbing and he felt slightly sick.

"You look worn out," Edwin said.

"I _am_ worn out," Charles admitted with a lop-sided smile as his eyes went to Jefferson Brush. "It's been a long few days."

"Amen to that," Brush said.

The defense lawyer turned to the marshal. "Have you spoken with the army concerning Wilts?"

Jefferson nodded. "Seems they knew he was on the edge. Though he was retired, Wilts had volunteered to help train men and they'd carried tales about him. I guess they passed him off on us to get him out of their hair. There will be an inquiry, but since I'm a marshal, there shouldn't be any trouble." His eyes went to Charles. "I told them _I_ killed him."

He didn't like being a party to lies, but then they couldn't be completely certain. Brush's gun had gone off when he fell, even though he was pretty sure the shot had gone wide.

Charles nodded as he took another sip of water.

And then, all too soon, they were at it again.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline awakened early and had gotten to her chores. The girls were still sleeping. Unlike the day before, due to the meeting, they had school and it would soon be time to rouse them and get them on their way. She hoped Nellie wouldn't retaliate for what had passed between her and Harriet. If she was lucky, Harriet had said very little about what had happened for fear of stirring up the Reverend Alden's ire again. Still, she had a vision of skinned knees and black eyes and had actually pulled out the Indian lilac to treat any cuts and scrapes her middle girl came home with. Caroline smiled softly. The Bible said the sins of the father were visited upon the coming generations.

Laura certainly had her father's temper!

As she turned to cut the loaf of bread she had pulled out of the oven to cool a half hour before, the blonde woman was startled to hear a rig pull into the yard. By the sound of it, it was most likely Doctor Baker. She wiped her hands on her apron, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and approached the door with trepidation.

What would the Doctor be doing out here this early?

The first thing the Hiram said as she opened the door was, "There's nothing wrong, Caroline."

She let out a relieved sigh. "I thought maybe Charles..."

He shook his head. "I haven't seen Charles. However..." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. With a smile he handed it to her. "Someone has."

She looked at the envelope. The corner of a telegram was peaking out of it. "What's this?" she asked.

"A rider came into town just about the time I was getting ready to head out. I heard him asking where he could find the home of Charles Ingalls. He said he'd ridden hard from Mankato."

Caroline stared at the telegram. She swallowed and looked up at the doctor. "Do you think it's from Charles?"

The older man grinned. "I think the only way you are going to know is to open it."

She frowned. It was such a strange thing. A little piece of paper wrapped in more paper that held words that could change her life.

Doctor Baker's hand found her arm. "God protects good men, Caroline. I'm sure it's from Charles, telling you he is all right."

She blinked back tears and nodded. Then, using her index finger, she pried open the envelope and read the short abrupt words it contained. As she did, a little sob of gratitude escaped her.

"Am I right?" their friend asked.

Caroline nodded. She took the message up again and read.

ARRIVED MANKATO. SAFE. TRIAL IN 2 DAYS. HOME SOON. LOVE TO YOU AND GIRLS. CHARLES.

The doctor's grip tightened on her arm. "Do you need to sit down?"

She shook herself. "No. No. I'm just...relieved."

As the blond man nodded, she saw his expression change. "Perhaps you should read it again."

Caroline frowned.

"You have a new audience."

She turned to find Laura and Mary had come down from the loft. Their little concerned faces showed through the crack they had opened in the door.

Mary's blue eyes were pinned to the sheet of paper. "Is that from Pa?" she asked. "Is he all right?"

She realized they had misconstrued her tears of joy for ones of sadness. "Your pa is fine!" she declared. "He's in Mankato and he's safe!"

A second later she was surrounded by arms.

Doctor Baker was smiling at them. He tipped his hat. "Well, I can guarantee nothing I do for the rest of the day is going to bring as much happiness as what I just did! You take care of yourself, Caroline." He pointed at the girls. "And you two stay out of trouble!"

"We will!" they chimed in chorus.

After the doctor had gone, they went into the house. As the girls returned to the loft to prepare for school, Caroline sat down at the table and read the telegram again. At first, she could think of nothing else but that word 'safe'. Then she began to wonder. There was no mention of Alan. Nothing to indicate the angry Indian boy was still with Charles. Her husband had made it to Mankato safely to testify in Jack Lame Horse's behalf, but what had the trip there been like? If he'd been hurt, he wouldn't have said. He wouldn't have wanted her to worry.

Of course, she would worry anyway. She would worry until she saw him coming down the road out front; until she felt her lips on his and his strong hands on her waist.

Rising, she went to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out.

"Hurry home, Charles."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The examination by the defense went a lot easier, though Edwin Grey pressed him on the same points the prosecutor had, making him clarify everything he'd said and gettin' in an occasional dig at what the Devin Hanks had said in spite of his objections. They were almost done. Grey was summing up his case. He was still in the witness box as he'd asked to make a statement on Jack Lame Horse's behalf and, amazingly, the judge had agreed. Lame Horse had been returned to the court for the summations and had sat stoically through the prosecutor's as the man called him everything from a red-faced savage to a murderer, painting the picture of a dark, menacing man filled with hate for a whole race of men.

Blindness, it seemed, went both ways.

Grey had finished and he looked at him. Then he turned to the judge. "That concludes the defense's statement, your honor. I believe it's Mister Ingalls' turn."

The judge nodded. "Mister Ingalls?"

Charles rose. He stood for a moment looking over the crowd and then he began to speak.

"Thank you, your Honor," he began, "for hearin' what I have to say." Turning to the people in the court, he said, "I want to ask every man and woman here by what right they seek to deprive this brother man – Jack Lame Horse – of the life which is as dear to him as theirs is to them? Although he's an Indian, we've got a common father. Jack Lame Horse is a son of Adam too. He was made bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh." Charles noted the reactions of the occupants of the courtroom. Some were outraged, but most were squirming in their seats. "Besides," he went on, "by what authority do we boast of our being white? Who established the doctrine that a white skin is better in nature or in God's sight than a red one?" His jaw tightened as anger shook him. "Who said that white men are at liberty to shoot and hunt down red men? In my opinion, the Indians of America have been more sinned against than sinning. Our forefathers came across the Atlantic and took advantage of their fears and simplicity. They used that to find a resting place among the Indians and since that time have abused it until the Indians have been driven from their homes and firesides. Soon they'll be extinct!i" Charles drew a calming breath. His gaze remained steady. "But then, maybe that's what you all want." He paused. He knew in the city God often took a back seat to progress and gain, but he was gonna tell them what He thought anyway. "It says in Revelation 5:9, ' _And they sang a new song, saying, 'Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation'."_ After a second he repeated, " _Every_ tribe and nation."

And then he left the box.

As he dropped into a chair at the defense table, Edwin Grey placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, Charles. Well done."

He hoped so. He hoped it was enough to keep the noose off Jack Lame Horse's neck.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline once again stood at the window looking out on their yard. Over a week had passed since Charles' telegram had arrived. There'd been no other from him, though that didn't surprise her as she knew they were very expensive to send. The day was almost done. The children were in their beds. They'd said their prayers and she could hear a soft snoring drifting down from above. It had taken a few days, but Nellie's true colors had finally shown and she'd told Laura her mother had done nothing wrong and that her _pa_ was at fault. Laura had shouted something just about the same back, saying Harriet was a sinner and her Pa, well, was a saint. Both of them had ended up tumbling into the creek and both now had colds.

And so life went on.

With a glance at the loft, Caroline reached for her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders and stepped outside. The weather over the last few weeks had been so changeable and it was chilly again. She went to the stump – the one that seemed so empty when she spied it and her husband wasn't sitting there – and sat down. It was Sunday night. Tomorrow the new week would begin. The service had been interesting. For the last two weeks, the Reverend Alden had spoken on the topic of gossips and liars. Harriet Oleson hadn't shown. Nels came to church each week with the word that she had a headache. Caroline knew how it would go. Harriet would conveniently stay away until the topic went away too, and then she would begin to spread rumors again. It wouldn't surprise her if, in the future, Charles ended up as her target once more. Perhaps she would even try the same thing. Charles was a handsome man. She saw the women in the town watching him. His natural charm and beauty turned heads and there were women, she knew, who had indicated they would be interested if he was. He never was, God bless him.

He was only interested in her.

Closing her eyes, Caroline dropped her head. She linked her hands and fell into a state of grace, speaking to her Father in Heaven and thanking him for all the blessings he had bestowed upon her. She was so deep in thought that she didn't hear him approach. She didn't know he was there until a hand touched her shoulder and a beloved and well-known voice said her name.

"Caroline."

For a moment she thought it was just her wishful thinking. She hadn't heard a wagon or horse. So late at night, she couldn't believe he would have walked all the way from town.

Opening her eyes, she turned and asked, "Charles?"

He was there, the moonlight settling in his bronze hair and turning it to silver, his green eyes catching the light and sparking with their familiar emerald fire.

"Oh, Charles!" she said as she flung herself into his arms.

The tears came next.

Her husband held her tightly, shushing her and cooing in her ear. "It's all right, Caroline. I'm here. I'm safe."

She hugged him tightly. "But how? Did you walk?"

He laughed. "No, I ran into Isaiah in town. He brought me most of the way." Charles paused. "I wanted to surprise you."

Caroline looked up. She frowned as if hurt, and batted his arm. "Charles Ingalls, if you aren't the orneriest man I have ever known!"

He shrugged. "I can go back to town and get a horse and come in proper if you want."

She just looked at him.

It was then she saw the cut on his head. Reaching up, she touched it. "Charles, what happened?"

"It's nothin'. Just a little crease from a bullet," he said as if he were talking about a paper cut.

"A bullet!" Her eyes went wide. "Who shot at you? Are you all right? Is there any _– mmmpphhh."_ A second later she sucked in air from the kiss he had planted on her lips to silence her. It didn't work. "I want to know if you are in any danger, and –"

Her husband pressed a finger to her lips. He glanced back at the house. "Are the girls asleep?"

She frowned. He was evading her. "Yes. Why?"

"I'm just dyin' to tell you everythin' that happened, Mrs. Ingalls, and I'll do that in the mornin', I promise." Charles stretched, working his arms to each side. She couldn't help but notice the way his muscles rippled in the moonlight. "Right now, I'd like to get some sleep." One of his dark eyebrows cocked at a rascally angle. "Or somethin'."

Men, she thought.

Caroline linked her arm in Charles and she didn't even scold him when his hand dropped to the back of her dress and he gave a little squeeze.

But then, _that_ was what she was thinking about too.

i Charles' speech is adapted from one given by Judge William Wicks, 1824, at the trial of a group of men accused of murdering a family of Indians in what was known until recently as the Fall Creek Massacre. The trial took place in Pendleton, IN, and the result was the first time justice was seen for the red man in a United States Court. The man who made this happen was John Johnston, Federal Indian Agent, Piqua OH.


	11. Chapter 11

EPILOGUE

The next morning Charles rose early and was at his chores before the sun was up. Isaiah had done well by them, but there were things that needed doin' with summer coming on. He'd left Caroline sleeping, noting as he did that she looked like an angel with her golden hair splayed out over the pillows. He'd left the house as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake the girls any sooner than needed. He'd slipped up to their room the night before after he and Caroline had finished to check on them. Mary slept right through his visit, but he'd found Laura awake. She was miserable with a cold. His little girl had given him a hug and told him that him bein' home was the best cure she could have.

He'd have to check with Doc Baker on that one.

It was funny, comin' home after what he'd seen and done. In some ways, it felt like he'd never left. There was nothin' to indicate that Alan, or Alowan as he'd come to call him, had ever been on their land. Nothin' to show that the boy's father had returned, or that Jack Lame Horse was a free man. Charles paused. He smiled as he leaned on the handle of his pitchfork. And he _was_ free. Like Edwin Grey said, Judge Winters had been a fair man. He'd decided that Abraham Lincoln's pardon superseded any lower court ruling and turned the native loose. Marshal Brush had volunteered to take Lame Horse into the hills, so they could be sure no one would try to overturn the judge's ruling with a gun. Charles had volunteered to go with him, but Brush had refused. He hadn't seen it, but the marshal had.

He'd been a sick man.

It was why it took him so long to get home. The infection he was carryin' had finally caught up with him and he'd had to fight off a fever that tried to take him home to Jesus. He doubted he would ever tell Caroline and hoped no one else would come along who would. It couldn't change what had happened and it would only scare her. He was fine now, though he still felt weak.

He wasn't about to tell her that either.

As he began to pitch hay again, he heard the door to the house slam. He knew what was comin'. One or all of his girls were awake and they were coming out to find him. As he stepped forward, something moved and he almost fell. Looking down he recognized the feisty little runt kitten Laura had named 'Peanut'. As he laughed and bent to pick up the mewling bundle of fluff, Charles remembered the words he had spoken to his daughter on that day, long ago, when he was sure the kitten would die.

" _There's no way to say, Half-pint. It looks like it might be up to Peanut. He'll have to fight every inch of the way, Half-pint, and he'll probably need your help. Even at that, he may still not make it. He's gotta have a will to survive. You can't know what's inside an animal until it shows."_

Or inside a man.

Alowan was kind of like that scrawny, determined kitten. The boy had had to fight every inch of the way and there was no tellin' what kind of a man he would make. Havin' his father back had to help and maybe – just maybe – knowin' him had helped a little bit too. Jefferson Brush told him that both Sota and Alowan had been waitin' for Jack Lame Horse when he took him up into the mountains. It wasn't legal, but the lawman had let them go.

With a grandfather and father like that, the boy had a fightin' chance.

"Pa!" Laura's voice rang out. His name was followed by a sneeze and another, "Pa!"

Dropping the kitten Charles turned just in time to be nearly knocked over by his middle daughter. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed so tight, if it had been his chest, he wouldn't have been able to breathe.

"Oh, Pa! You are home! I thought I'd dreamed it!" she declared.

Charles reached down to touch her downy hair. "I'm home, Half-pint, and I ain't goin' anywhere for a long while."

"You promise?"

He loosed her arms and knelt to her level. "If I have anything to say about it."

Laura was staring at him. She reached up to touch the cut on his forehead. "You're hurt, Pa."

"I'm fine."

His daughter wasn't buyin' it. "Are you tellin' the truth?"

Now, how did a man answer that?

He twitched his lips. "Mostly."

She leaned in and planted a kiss on the wound. "There. That'll make it all better. Then you won't have to tell Ma."

Charles grinned at her and then, without warning, scooped the little girl up and into his arms. As Laura giggled, he began to carry her toward the house.

He stopped when he saw the three visitors who had silently arrived.

Grandfather, father, and son.

Charles placed Laura's feet on the ground and pointed her toward the door. "Go inside."

"But Pa!" She was waving. "It's only Mister Lame Horse."

"You do what I tell you."

Laura frowned. "Yes, sir."

She could have moved faster, but at least she moved. Once she was inside and the door was closed behind her, Charles turned to the natives. He was sure they had nothing to fear from them, but he wasn't about to allow harm to come to one of his family – just in case he was wrong.

"Jack," he said with a nod. "Sota." Charles' gaze went to the young man seated on the right of the older man. "Alowan."

The boy glanced at the older men. When they nodded, he slipped off his horse and approached him. The boy was dressed as a native now, in buckskins. There were feathers in his hair and he wore a bone breastplate. Some people would have thought that made him look wild, but to Charles', the boy had never looked so at peace.

"Mister Ingalls," he said stiffly.

He shook his head. "Call me Charles. After all, we almost died together."

Alowan's eyes went to his throat. The scars of the boy's attack were still there. That was something _else_ he was going to have to explain to Caroline. She'd missed them the night before.

"You almost died because _I_ almost killed you." The boy paused. "Because I _meant_ to kill you."

"You were angry," he countered. "You had every right to be."

"No. I did not." Alowan looked at his father and grandfather and then turned back. "I was...as you said...as bad as the men I hated. I believed that, because a few white men wanted to destroy my people, _all_ white men deserved to pay." He drew a breath and puffed it out. "I was wrong."

Charles nodded. "Yes, you were."

The boy's eyes widened. His jaw tightened and he nodded again. "I have come to make amends before my father and grandfather and I go north, into Canada."

He shook his head. "There's no need."

"There _is_ need!" the boy all but shouted. Then he seemed to regain his control. "I have nothing to give you, Charles Ingalls. No sweet grass or wampum, no pipe of peace to smoke. I..." He hesitated. "I wanted to work for you, to pay my debt, but my grandfather tells me this is not wise as I would bring harm to you and yours."

Sadly, it was true.

Charles looked toward the house as Caroline stepped out of the door. Her eyes went to the Indians and then returned to him. He smiled at her, assuring her everything was all right.

Alowan paused and then continued, "And so I give you this, words you know that I have written now in my heart. "' _But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you_.'" Alowan cleared his throat. "These are the words of the Great Father, the Creator of us all, taught to me by my grandfather."

Charles eyes flicked to Jack Lame Horse. He'd never considered the fact that the man might be a Christian.

Now that he thought of it, it explained just about everything.

Charles held his hand out to the young man. "Thank you, Alowan. That's the greatest gift you could give me."

The boy smiled. He actually smiled.

"I am honored to have known you, Charles Ingalls. And I am...forever in your debt."

Alowan had teared up and choked. Charles pretended not to see. Then he watched as the Indian boy returned to his horse. A moment later he and his father turned and rode away. Jack Lame Horse did not follow. Instead he came toward him.

The older man halted his horse and stared down at him. Then he did something that astonished Charles.

He spoke.

In English.

"Do you know what my grandson's name means?" he asked.

It took a moment for him to find his voice. "No."

"Alowan. It is Sioux for 'prayer song'. Thank you, Charles Ingalls, for helping my son's son to find that song again."

A moment later he was gone.

Charles stood there, unsure of what to do, until his wife came to him and took his hand. She reached up and wiped away a tear that had trailed down his cheek.

"I guess what they say is true," he whispered. "God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform."

She nodded. "Breakfast is ready."

Charles slipped his arm around his wife's slender waist. The girls were waiting for him to bless the food before they could eat. He hoped they would be able to wait.

It was gonna be one _long_ prayer of thanks.


End file.
